THOLAKELE:

FOUND IN FIRE.
CHAPTER 1

There’s something about midnight at BP

Garage that makes people forget who they’re
supposed to be. The gospel girl becomes a
flirt. The taxi driver becomes a poet. And me?
I become a girl that doesn’t remember her
bruises. The air smells like petrol, cologne,
and KFC dunked wings. Music leaks from
someone's parked car — old-school kwaito
and deep house, playing like a memory. A
group of guys are spinning around the
forecourt in a white BMW, shouting
someone’s name. I know that name. Everyone
in uMlazi does.
Zakhelikhaya Zulu.
But I don’t look. I don’t flinch. I keep buying
airtime and snacks like I’m not in a place that
could catch re from one wrong stare.
Attendant: “Tholakele,”
the petrol attendant nods at me.
Attendant: “Late again?”
I smile softly.
Me: “I like the quiet.”
That’s a lie. I come here because Gogo Deli’s
house is too silent after a day like today. I
needed a loud distraction. I needed to feel
like I existed outside my father’s voice —
outside the sharp slap he gave me this
morning for asking if I could move out. He
said I was ungrateful.
But how do you explain to a man like him
that fear can’t live in the same house as a
daughter anymore?
I walk past the crowd gathered by the car
wash, clutching my plastic bag. I see her —
Bawinile — my best friend in a red mini skirt,
dancing like heartbreak isn’t real. She waves
at me, then mouths: “Girl, he’s watching you.”
I don’t have to ask who. I feel it before I see
him.
Him.
Leaning against a blood-red Golf GTI, skin
darker than night, gold tooth glinting under
the BP sign. He’s not dancing. He’s not
laughing. He’s just... watching. Like a lion
does before it charges. Like a man who’s
memorized my name long before we ever
spoke. His hoodie says "Zulu," written in
cursive across his chest. His hands are
tucked into his pockets like they’re hiding
secrets. I want to look away, but I don’t. I
can’t. My breath stumbles. He tilts his head,
just slightly — as if to say, I see you.
Not just physically. But all of me. And I hate
how that makes me feel.
Exposed.
Open.
Seen.
I turn away quickly and start walking back
toward the main road. My hands are shaking.
Why? It’s not like he touched me. Not like he
said a word. But something about that man
doesn’t ask for permission. He doesn’t flirt.
He warns. And deep in my gut, I know...
Zakhelikhaya Zulu is going to ruin everything
I’ve built to protect myself.

And some small, wicked part of me wants

him to. I walk faster. Not because I’m scared
— no, not yet — but because there’s
something about his energy that feels like it
could trap me if I stand still too long. Like his
eyes are pulling thread through my body,
stitching me into his story before I even get
the chance to read the warning label. I can
hear my name being called behind me. Not
loud.
Not desperate. Just enough to let me know…
he knows it.
Zakhe: "Tholakele."
I freeze. There’s a part of me that wants to
keep walking. Go back to Gogo Deli’s place.
Pretend I didn’t hear. Pretend I’m not shaking.
Pretend I didn’t dream about this man the
other night even though we’ve never spoken.
But I turn. He’s closer now. Still leaning. Still
quiet. Still dangerous.
Me: “How do you know my name?”
I ask, voice steady even though my heart is
begging me to run or collapse. He licks his
bottom lip, just slightly, then shrugs.
Zakhe: “You walk like someone who’s trying
to forget where she came from,”
he says.
Zakhe: “Only girls with stories walk like that.”
I feel my throat tighten. That’s not flirting.
That’s an incision. A slice through the version
of me I show the world. I hate that he’s right.
I hate that he sees it.
Me: “I didn’t ask you to read me.”
He smirks.
Zakhe: “Didn’t need your permission.”
Zakhelikhaya Zulu isn’t like the other guys that
hang around BP Garage — loud, drunk,
trying to prove something. He doesn’t have to
prove anything. The respect around him is
quiet and thick, like a storm that’s already
passed but left everything soaked. I should’ve
walked away again. But I didn’t. Because I
wanted him to keep speaking. Even if his
voice was a curse.
Me: “You always watch women like that?”
I ask.
Zakhe: “Only one.”
And just like that… I can’t breathe.
He walks toward me slowly, not touching, not
rushing. There’s space between us — but the
air feels tighter with every step he takes.
He stops when we’re face to face.
Zakhe: “I saw you three months ago,”
he says.
Zakhe: “Right there by the taxi rank. You were
crying behind a bread truck. You wiped your
tears with the sleeve of a grey hoodie.”
I blink. Hard. Because I remember that day. I
remember thinking I was alone. I remember
my father dragging me by the arm before
that.
Me: “You watched me?”
I whisper.
Zakhe: “I never stopped.”
Silence. And then, his voice drops even
lower. Like gravel under re.
Zakhe: “I’m not gonna ask to know you,
Tholakele. I’m gonna make sure you never
forget that I did.”
My knees nearly buckle. He walks past me
like he didn’t just rip the oxygen from my
lungs, gets into his car, revs the engine once,
then drives off. His taillights bleed red into
the night like a warning. Like he just lit a
match and dropped it behind him. I stand
there for a long time. Bag in my hand.
Heart in my throat. Sanity? Gone.
Zakhelikhaya Zulu doesn’t flirt.
He haunts. By the time I get back to Gogo
Deli’s house, the dogs are barking in the
distance and the moon is lower than it should
be. It’s quiet — not peaceful, but heavy. Like
the air knows something I don’t. I push the
gate open gently. It creaks, like always. Like
it’s trying to warn me. The kitchen light is on.
Gogo left it for me. That’s her way of saying,
You can still come home here, no matter what
you’ve seen out there. I sit at the table. The
plastic bag with my snacks is still in my hand.
I don’t even open it. I just sit there, shaking.
Not from fear. But from knowing something
started tonight. Something bigger than me.
Something that doesn’t feel like a crush.
Doesn’t feel like curiosity. It feels like fate,
sharpened into a blade, pressed against my
chest. I take a slow breath. And for the rst
time in months, I say a prayer out loud.
Me: “God,”
I whisper,
Me: “if he’s going to destroy me… please let
it be beautiful.”
And I don’t even cry. Because something
deep inside me already knows…
Zakhelikhaya Zulu will not leave me whole.
But maybe… just maybe… I don’t want to be
whole anymore.

CHAPTER 2
The sun was barely awake when I slipped into
my favorite denim skirt — the one with the
tiny tear on the side, right where my hip
curves just enough to catch attention without
trying. It’s funny how clothes can be armor
and confession all at once. I caught my
reflection in the cracked mirror above the
sink. Messy hair. Bare face. But my eyes…
my eyes carried the weight of last night. The
blood-red glow of a car’s taillights was still
burning behind my eyelids.
Bawi: “Thola!”
Bawinile’s voice bounced off the walls like an
explosion.
Bawi: “Girl, you look like you’re hiding
secrets. Spill.”
She was leaning against the doorframe,
lipstick smeared from last night’s shisanyama
run, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Me: “Maybe I am,”
I said, grabbing my bag.
Me: “But some secrets burn too hot.”
Bawi grinned like she already knew.
Bawi: “That’s why you wear denim, huh? To
show you’re tough but still soft where it
counts.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. She had this way
of cutting through my walls like a machete —
no lter, no apologies. We met Samukelisiwe
at the corner café. Samu was soft-spoken, a
prayer warrior with a erce streak, always
xing hair for anyone who needed it. Today,
she was more quiet than usual, eyes darting
toward the street every few minutes.
Samu: “Something’s coming,”
she whispered when Bawi wasn’t looking.
Samu: “I can feel it in my bones.”
I wanted to laugh, but my heart didn’t. It
agreed with her. The trio walked through the
township, voices low but full of life. I kept
stealing glances toward the BP Garage,
hoping not to see those dark eyes again. But
fate doesn’t care about hope. Later, as we
passed the car wash, there he was —
Zakhelikhaya — leaning against his red Golf,
watching like a predator and a poet all at
once. He caught my gaze and smiled, just a
flicker, but enough to make my breath hitch.
Bawi nudged me.
Bawi: “Looks like someone’s got your name
tattooed in his eyes.”
I wanted to tell her it was nothing. That I
wasn’t scared. That I wasn’t already falling. But
all I could do was hold my bag tighter and
walk faster. Because in KZN, stories don’t just
begin. They blaze. We found a corner spot at
the café — the one with cracked windows
and the smell of stale coffee mixed with
dreams. Samu ordered hot tea with extra
ginger, Bawi went for a cold cola, and I just
stared out the window, watching the township
come alive.
Samu: “Thola, you’ve been quiet all morning,”
Samu said softly, her hands folded like she
was holding a prayer. I wanted to tell her
everything. About Zakhe’s eyes, the way he
made me feel like a re about to burn or be
burned. But the words stuck in my throat like
ash.
Me: “Just tired,”
I lied, swallowing hard. Bawi snorted.
Bawi: “Tired or terri ed, ngane? Because I
saw him staring last night like he wanted to
eat you alive.”
I felt my cheeks heat up.
Me: “It’s not like that.”
Bawi: “Not yet,”
Bawi teased, winking. The bell above the café
door jingled, and my heart skipped.
Zakhelikhaya walked in. Every head turned,
but he only looked at us. No hesitation. No
shame. He came to our table, smooth like
water cutting through stone.
Zakhe: “Tholakele,”
he said, voice low but clear.
Zakhe: “You can’t keep running from me.”
I stared. My pulse pounding loud enough for
everyone to hear.
Me: “Why do you want me?”
I whispered. He smiled that dangerous smile,
the one that promised both salvation and
destruction.
Zakhe: “Because you’re the re this city forgot
to respect.”
He sat down without waiting for permission.
The three of us sat in silence, the air thick
with unspoken words. For once, I didn’t want
to run. His eyes never left me as he spoke.
Zakhe: “You’re not safe out here. Not from
him,”
Zakhelikhaya said quietly, nodding toward the
street like he meant someone dangerous was
waiting in the shadows. I felt a cold shiver
run down my spine. My father’s threats, the
nights I hid under the thin blanket, the scars I
carried — they all came rushing back.
Me: “But I’m not your problem,”
I said, voice shaking just a little.
Me: “I don’t want to be.”
Zakhe smiled that slow, dangerous smile —
the one that makes you forget how to breathe.
Zakhe: “Maybe you’re right,”
he said.
Zakhe: “Maybe you don’t want to be. But I
don’t ask for permission when it comes to
protecting what’s mine.”
Bawi giggled nervously and shifted in her
seat. Samu’s eyes were wide but steady, like
she was praying under her breath. I didn’t
know what to say. Part of me wanted to run
away. Part of me wanted to ask him to stay.
The words caught in my throat like a flame
refusing to go out.
Me: “Why me?”
I whispered.
Zakhelikhaya leaned in closer, the scent of
leather and something wild lling my senses.
Zakhe: “Because you’re the only one who
doesn’t run when the re comes.”
For a moment, time slowed. The noise of the
township faded. His voice was the only thing
that mattered. I didn’t know what I was
stepping into. But I knew it would change
everything.

After he said those words, the world felt

quieter than before. I wanted to ask more—
so many questions swirling inside me like a
storm. But my mouth wouldn’t open. Maybe
because deep down I already knew the truth.
Zakhelikhaya Zulu didn’t just want to protect
me. He wanted to own me.
The thought scared me and thrilled me at the
same time. I looked away, biting my lip.
Outside, the township life carried on—music
blaring, taxis honking, laughter cutting
through the evening air. Inside, my heart was
pounding like a drum, trying to catch a
rhythm that matched his. Bawi cleared her
throat.
Bawi: “So, what now? You going to run and
hide, or are you ready to dance with re?”
I glanced at her, then at Samu. Both were
waiting for me to decide. I didn’t answer. Not
yet. Zakhe stood up, the weight of his
presence lling the small café.
Zakhe: “I’ll see you again,”
he said, voice low. And before I could even
blink, he was gone. Leaving me alone with a
storm of questions, burning right through my
denim skirt.

CHAPTER 3
The smoky scent of grilling meat always felt
like home. Even if my heart was on edge. I
found Bawinile at our usual spot, the
shisanyama behind the taxi rank. The heat
from the coals mixed with the sweat and
laughter of people trying to forget their
worries for a while. Bawi was halfway through
a bottle of Castle Lager, her eyes bright and
mischievous.
Bawi: “There she is,”
she said, grinning.
Bawi: “The girl with the denim skirt and
secrets.”
I rolled my eyes but sat next to her. Tonight
was about distractions. The crowd pulsed
with music — loud, thumping, alive. I tried to
lose myself in the noise, but out of the corner
of my eye, I saw him again. Zakhelikhaya.
Leaning against a pole, watching the re,
watching me. His gaze was sharp — the kind
that could cut glass. I felt a chill despite the
heat. I tried to focus on Bawi’s jokes, but
every word blurred as his eyes held mine
longer than they should.
Me: “Stop looking at me like that,”
I whispered. He smirked, then disappeared
into the crowd. But the feeling lingered.
Those shisanyama eyes — dark, burning,
impossible to ignore. I knew this was just the
beginning. I tried to tell myself it was just
coincidence — that Zakhelikhaya being here
wasn’t anything more than a habit, a regular
haunt for a man like him. But the truth was,
he showed up wherever I went. The
shisanyama, the car wash, even the BP
Garage.
Like he was tethered to me, drawn by
something I didn’t understand yet.
Bawinile nudged me, breaking the fog in my
head.
Bawi: “Girl, you’re spacing out again,”
she said, laughing.
Bawi: “You’re acting like a schoolgirl with a
crush.”
I wanted to laugh with her, but instead I
shook my head.
Me: “This isn’t a crush,”
I said quietly.
Me: “It’s… something else.”
She looked at me with those sharp, knowing
eyes.
Bawi: “Yeah, re. And it’ll burn if you’re not
careful.”
I pulled my jacket tighter around my
shoulders, even though it was hot. Because
the truth was, I was scared. Not of him. But of
what he represented.
Power.
Danger.
Change.
The kind of change that can save you or kill
you. I looked back toward where Zakhelikhaya
had disappeared. And in that moment, I
realized… There was no running from the
re. The night stretched on, music fading into
quiet conversations and the crackle of
embers. I was about to call it a night when a
hand landed lightly on my shoulder. I
jumped. Zakhelikhaya stood there, his
silhouette sharp against the dim glow of the
shisanyama re.
Zakhe: “Walk with me,”
he said, voice low, commanding. I hesitated,
heart thumping like a drum in my chest. But
the pull was stronger than my fear. We walked
away from the noise, away from the eyes that
watched with curiosity and judgment. He
stopped near a wall splattered with faded
graf ti and leaned close.
Zakhe: “Why do you run?”
he asked. I looked up into his eyes — those
shisanyama eyes that saw through the walls
I’d built.
Me: “Because if I stop,”
I whispered,
Me: “I’m afraid everything will burn.”
He smiled softly, almost tender.
Zakhe: “Then maybe it’s time to stop running.”
For the rst time, I felt the weight of his
words settle inside me. The re wasn’t just
outside. It was inside me, too. And maybe,
just maybe, I needed to let it burn. Before we
parted, Zakhelikhaya reached out and tucked
a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His
ngers were warm, but his touch sent a
shiver down my spine.
Zakhe: “Thola,”
he whispered,
Me: “you don’t have to ght alone.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to trust that
re could be a kind thing — not just
destruction. But my heart still trembled.
Because trusting a man like Zakhelikhaya Zulu
meant stepping into a world where pain and
passion lived side by side. And I wasn’t sure
if I was ready for both. He watched me walk
away, eyes burning brighter than the coals
behind us. And I knew… This was only the
beginning. As I walked away from him, the
sounds of the shisanyama faded behind me.
But his gaze stayed burned into my skin like a
brand. I kept my head down, clutching my
bag tight, pretending I wasn’t trembling. But
inside, a war was raging. Between the girl
who wanted to stay safe and the woman who
felt alive for the rst time.
Zakhelikhaya didn’t just see me.
He challenged me. And no matter how much
I wanted to deny it, I knew— The re was no
longer just in the streets. It was inside me.
And it wasn’t going out anytime soon.

CHAPTER 4
The smell of fresh magwinya and sweet tea
wrapped around me like a warm blanket the
moment I stepped through the gate. Gogo
Deli’s house was a small, weathered place
with cracked walls and a sagging porch, but it
held the kind of comfort only a grandmother’s
love could build.
Gogo: “Tholakele!”
Gogo’s voice boomed from the kitchen.
Gogo: “You’re late! Come eat before the food
gets cold.”
I smiled despite the weight pressing on my
chest. Gogo was everything I wasn’t — loud,
unapologetic, full of re and faith. She had
been my refuge ever since the bruises and
bitter words started at home. Sitting at the
kitchen table, I watched her flip magwinya
dough in the hot oil.
Gogo: “Your father called again,”
Gogo said without looking up.
Gogo: “Says you need to come home.”
I stiffened.
Me: “Did you tell him I’m not coming?”
I asked. Gogo nodded, eyes erce.
Gogo: “You’re a grown woman now. He can
bark all he wants, but he doesn’t own your
soul.”
Her words gave me strength, but fear still
clung to me like shadows. I thought about
Zakhelikhaya, about the re he brought
wherever he went. And I wondered if this
house — my only safe place — would be
enough to protect me from what was coming.

After dinner, I sat on the porch with Gogo

while the sun dipped low, painting the sky in
bruised purples and oranges. Her eyes
softened as she watched me.
Gogo: “You’re scared,”
she said quietly, not as a question but a fact. I
nodded, not trusting my voice. Gogo reached
over and took my hand, her skin rough from
years of hard work.
Gogo: “There’s a re inside you, Tholakele.
The same one that burned in my mother’s
heart, and hers before her.”
I looked at her, searching for answers.
Gogo: “Fire can destroy, yes,”
she continued.
Gogo: “But it can also cleanse. It can build. It
can give light when the world is dark.”
I swallowed hard.
Me: “Don’t let fear snuff it out.”
Her words settled in my bones. But outside, I
could still hear the distant roar of the
township — the sirens, the shouting, the
unending noise. And somewhere in that
noise was Zakhelikhaya, waiting. Later that
night, after Gogo had gone to bed, I sat alone
by the small repit in the backyard. The
flames danced and flickered, casting long
shadows on the walls. I pulled my knees
close to my chest and whispered into the
dark,
Me: “What do I do now?”
The re inside me answered with a low
crackle. I thought of Zakhelikhaya’s
shisanyama eyes — erce, unyielding, alive. I
thought of my father’s threats and the scars I
wore like invisible chains. And I thought of
Gogo’s words. Maybe re wasn’t just
destruction. Maybe it was the only thing
erce enough to burn away the past. I let the
flames consume my fears, if only for a
moment. And as the embers glowed, I knew
this was just the beginning.

CHAPTER 5
Zakhe’s POV

They call me a ghost in these streets. The

kind of man you don’t see coming until it’s
too late.
But none of that matters tonight.
Because tonight, all I see is her. Tholakele.
The girl who moves like re and hides like
smoke. I rst saw her three months ago —
crying behind a bread truck, bruised and
broken, but with eyes sharp enough to cut
through steel. Since then, I’ve been watching.
Waiting. Learning every line of her face like
it’s a map to salvation. She thinks she’s
running. But I’m the storm chasing her. I don’t
know what she means to me yet. Lover?
Enemy? Fate? All I know is this — no one
hurts her. Not her father. Not the streets. Not
anyone. Because I’ll burn down every
building that tries to erase her name. Tonight,
the township hums like it always does —
sirens, laughter, and the occasional shout
slicing through the night. But I don’t hear any
of it. My mind is sharp, focused. I remember
the rst time I saw her — Tholakele Vilakazi
— fragile yet erce, standing at the edge of
the world like she didn’t belong there, but like
she was ready to burn it down if she had to.
Her eyes haunt me. There’s a strength in her
that doesn’t beg for mercy. It demands
respect. I don’t believe in mercy. I believe in
power. And I will be the power that keeps her
alive. I touch the small knife hidden under my
jacket. Not to threaten. But to remind myself
that I am the reckoning. That anyone who
tries to hurt her will answer to me. And when
they do, their names will bleed across every
wall this city owns. Her name is already
written on my soul. I park the Golf on the
side of the road outside BP Garage and kill
the engine. It’s late. Quiet. The kind of quiet
that comes before a riot. I light a cigarette,
but I don’t smoke it. I just watch the ember
burn, imagining it’s the re I’ll set to this city
if anyone touches her again.
Tholakele.
She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already
mine. Not in the possessive way. No. But in
that way the moon belongs to the night. In
that way re belongs to chaos. She doesn’t
need saving — she needs a weapon. And I’ve
killed for less. I take out a small blade, flick it
open, and press it to the edge of my palm.
Pain hums, sharp and grounding. I drag the
blood across a piece of cardboard torn from
an old cigarette box.
THOLAKELE
Red.
Bold.
Raw.
I place it under the windscreen wiper of a
white Ford parked near the shisanyama. It’s
her cousin’s car. I know because I’ve been
watching.
I always watch. Let them know she’s not
invisible anymore. Let them know her name
is written in blood. Let them know I’m
coming. I remember her scent before her
name. Sandalwood and sunrise. A scent that
doesn’t belong to this harsh world, but here
she is, walking among the broken and
bruised — like she doesn’t even know her
softness is a threat. I saw her again today.
Outside her grandmother’s gate. Carrying
plastic bags, her two friends giggling beside
her. But my eyes don’t hear laughter.
They watch her closely — the way her
shoulders tense every time a car drives by,
like she's expecting a shadow to pull her
back into hell. Who hurt you that deeply,
Tholakele? I already know the answer. I
already know who your father is. And I
already know what I’m going to do.

I drive to a warehouse in uMlazi. My second

home. My men are waiting. Luthando lights a
blunt, and Spha wipes down the AK as if it’s
something holy.
Spha: “Zakhe,”
Spha says.
Spha: “You’ve been quiet lately. You plotting
something?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I toss a stained piece
of paper onto the table.
Me: “Vilakazi,”
I say.
Me: “Her father.”
They look at each other. They know the name.
Respected. Feared. But not untouchable. Not
anymore.
Luthando: “Why him?”
Luthando asks. I stare at the red paper I wrote
her name on, still soaked from earlier.
Me: “Because he tried to bury re,”
I say.
Me: “But re doesn’t die in the dark.”
Later that night, I watch her from afar again.
BP Garage. She’s laughing this time, dancing
with her best friends, licking ice cream off her
ngers like the world never broke her.
She doesn't know I’m there. But I’m always
there.
Watching.
Waiting.
And writing her name in every place that ever
tried to silence her.
THOLAKELE VILAKAZI.
You will never be erased again. Even if I have
to write you in blood. Even if I die doing it.
They call me a monster in the streets. A
ghost with blood on his hands and no fear in
his chest.
But they don’t know that monsters love too.
They don’t know that I saw heaven at a
shisanyama, wearing denim and laughter.
Tholakele Vilakazi. When she touched her
friend’s shoulder and threw her head back to
laugh, something inside me cracked. Not like
glass — no. Like bone. Because I knew then:
I’d kill to keep her safe. I’d burn buildings to
see her smile again. I’d write her name across
the sky if she ever forgot it belonged to more
than just her — it belonged to me too.

Earlier today, I followed her. Not too close.

Never close enough to make her look over
her shoulder. Close enough to shield her
without her knowing. Her father came out of
the yard.
Drunk. Loud. Wearing rage like a second
skin. He shouted her name.
Tholakele! But he didn’t say it like I do. He
said it like a man who believed he still owned
her. Like a man who would slap the light out
of his own daughter. She froze. Her spine
straightened, her shoulders dropped.
Her entire body flinched — the kind of flinch
you don’t learn from cartoons or nightmares.
The kind of flinch that comes from history
written in bruises. I clenched my jaw. Not
today. Not while I breathe.

I made a call.
Me: “Bheka leya number,”
I said to Luthando.
Me: “That man is breathing on borrowed
time.”
Luthando: “You want it quick?”
he asked. I thought of her again.
Of how she hides her pain behind good-girl
laughter and shy smiles. No. He doesn’t
deserve quick.
Me: “Make him beg,”
I said. Then I hung up.

Tonight, I returned to the warehouse and

stood in front of my wall. It’s covered in her
name. Written in red. Spray paint. Marker.
Blood.
THOLAKELE.
THOLAKELE.
THOLAKELE.
I stand in front of it, chest tight.
Some men kill for money. Some kill for pride.
I kill for her. And one day, she will know that
even devils have a heartbeat — And mine
beats her name.

CHAPTER 6
There’s something about today that’s making
my skin buzz. I don't know if it's the clouds
rolling in, the sharp taste of metal in the
wind, or how Gogo’s dogs haven’t barked
once all morning. Even the taxis seem quieter
on the main road. Like the township is
holding its breath for something it can't
name. Maybe I’m just tired. Or maybe…
maybe I can feel something watching me. I
step out of Gogo’s kitchen with a bowl of
freshly sliced mangoes and chili salt, the kind
only she knows how to make perfectly. I sit
on the front stoep, bare feet brushing against
the faded cement, and look out onto the
street. BP Garage is across the way. Busy, like
always. Boys leaning against the wall, their
Avanzas parked in crooked lines. Music from
a distance — something from Big Zulu or
maybe Ntencane. Gqom somewhere deeper
down the road. Familiar. Loud. But there’s one
pair of eyes that nd me. Again. He’s leaning
on a car. Same spot as yesterday. Same all-
black everything — tted pants, black hoodie
with the sleeves pushed up, and hands
tucked casually in his pockets like he’s the
main character of a lm only I’m watching.
His name? I don’t know it. But I know he’s not
just staring. He’s... studying me. Every time I
glance over, he doesn’t flinch or pretend to
look away. He just holds my gaze, like he
owns something about me already. Like he’s
waiting for me to realize it. I look down. Pop a
mango into my mouth. No, Thola. Don’t stare
too long. You’ve heard the stories. Girls who
locked eyes too long with boys like that...
ended up either missing or madly in love —
and sometimes those two things feel exactly
the same. Later that evening, I’m helping
Gogo sweep the back when she says:
Gogo: “Lowo umfana ubheke wena ngendlela
engajwayelekile.”
That boy is watching you in a way that isn’t
normal. I pause. Gogo doesn't gossip. Gogo
sees things before they happen.
Me: “He comes here often?”
I ask. She shrugs.
Gogo: “He doesn’t come. He hovers. Like a
man waiting for a sign. Or permission.”

When I walk home later, I feel it again. Not

footsteps. Not breath. Just... presence. And
when I glance over my shoulder — nothing.
But deep in my bones, something whispers:
“Don’t stare too long, Tholakele. He’s already
staring enough for both of you.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and
turned, my fan humming loudly but not
helping. I kept thinking about him — the man
in black who didn’t flinch. The one with eyes
like shadows dipped in re. I don’t know him.
But I felt known. Not in a sweet way. In a
dangerous, deliberate way. Like he saw things
I hadn’t told anyone. Like he was storing
pieces of me away, quietly. I sat up in bed,
pushed my braids away from my face, and
reached for my phone. No messages. Just a
blurry photo I took at the shisanyama last
weekend. He was in the background. Just
barely. I stared at the image. Zoomed in. The
hood was low over his face, but those eyes…
sharp, unbothered, watching.
Me: “What do you want from me?”
 I whispered to the screen. The phone didn’t
answer. But I swear, the silence said,
“Everything.” The next morning was bright
and hot, the kind of day where taxi drivers are
already shirtless by 10am. I left for work
early, taking the long way past BP Garage. I
don't know why. I just… did. There he was.
Same spot. Same lean. Same black hoodie —
even in this heat. But this time, he moved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Like smoke moving across a room.
He walked toward me, hands still in pockets.
Not fast. Not threatening. But intense. And
then… He walked past me.
Not a word.
Not a smile.
But as he passed, his shoulder brushed mine
gently. Like a secret. Like a warning. Like a
promise. My heart raced. And when I turned
around to look? He was gone. Disappeared
between buildings like a shadow. But I heard
him. His voice — deep, rough, beautifully
broken — whispered from somewhere
behind me, maybe in my mind, maybe not.
“Don’t stare too long, ntombazane. You might
not survive it.”
I froze. Because I already hadn’t survived the
way he looked at me. Later that day, I was
sitting with Gogo Deli on her stoep. The air
smelled like damp soil and boiling Impepho.
She was humming an old hymn under her
breath, peeling mango with a small blade.
Gogo: "Uyahlanya,"
 she said softly, almost like she was talking to
the mango.
Me: "Who, Gogo?"
She didn’t answer. Just glanced at me with
that knowing look in her eyes — the one that
felt like she could see straight into the
marrow of me.
Gogo: "You've seen him now, haven’t you?"
she asked nally. I blinked. My mouth opened
to lie, to say no, to brush it off as some
random guy I barely noticed. But I couldn’t.
Instead, I whispered,
Me: “Yes.”
Gogo sucked her teeth and tossed a piece of
mango skin to the ground.
Gogo: “Zakhelikhaya Zulu is not a man you
glance at and walk away from,”
she said. I felt something coil in my belly.
Me: “Who is he?”
Gogo’s eyes clouded.
Gogo: “Someone born with re in his mouth
and a graveyard in his heart.”
Chills danced along my spine.
Gogo: “I don’t know what he wants with you,
but he’s been watching you. Not from now.
From long.”
She stood slowly and brushed off her
wrapper.
Gogo: “And Thola,”
she said, pausing in the doorway, Gogo:
“don’t let your heart speak louder than your
spirit. Some love stories are not written in
ink. They’re written in… ash.”

That night, I found another note tucked under

my car wiper when I left work. It wasn’t paper.
It was a piece of cardboard, ripped from a
cigarette box. Red smudges across it. Words
etched in something too dark to be ink.

“Tholakele. I see them try to erase you. I’ll

carve you back into the world.
— Z.Z.”

My breath caught. I clutched it to my chest,

trembling. And for the rst time in a long
time… I didn’t feel invisible. I couldn’t sleep.
Not with Gogo’s words looping in my head
like a warning. Not with the note pressed
between the pages of my journal, tucked
under my pillow like it would protect me. I
should’ve been afraid. I really should’ve. But
instead… I felt seen. Like someone nally
looked at me long enough to not look away.
That was more terrifying than the blood on
that note. I got up, barefoot, and walked to the
window. The township outside was alive in its
usual chaos — cars speeding down the road
with music blasting, girls laughing, boys
shouting. But all I could feel was him. Like he
was still there. Watching. Breathing in the
same night I was. And then… I saw it.
Across the road, in faint red paint dripping
down the side of the hardware store’s wall:
"Tholakele lives here."
I gripped the windowsill. It was like a
declaration. Like a warning. Like a promise.
The next morning, the street buzzed about it.

“Yoh, mara who wrote that thing on Mr.

Biyela’s wall?”

“Did you see that blood-red paint? Awu.”

“Maybe it’s gang related.”

“No, man, it says a girl’s name. Tholakele?

Who’s that?”
I walked past them like I didn’t hear.
Pretended like it wasn’t my name bleeding
down that wall. Like I didn’t wake up with his
words still stuck to my chest. That evening at
Gogo Deli’s, she didn’t say a word. Just
handed me a hot cup of umqombothi and sat
beside me. No humming. No warnings. Only
silence. Only the both of us staring out into
the dusk. And that silence told me something
I already knew: This wasn’t the end. This was
only the beginning of what happens when a
man who’s touched re… decides you are
the flame.

CHAPTER 7
Saturdays at the car wash were wild.
Music louder than sins. Sun hotter than truth.
And egos buffed shinier than the rims being
cleaned. I wasn’t even supposed to be there. I
had just come from delivering groceries to
Gogo’s neighbour, and took a shortcut past
the car wash. Mistake. Big one. Because that’s
when the wind shifted. The kind of shift that
makes the hairs on your neck stand like they
know something you don’t. And then I saw
him.
Zakhelikhaya.
Leaning against a silver Golf with a cigarette
between his lips and a stare like it belonged
to the devil himself. He wasn’t doing
anything. Just… watching. Watching me like
I was the only one there. I told myself not to
look back. But I did. And he smiled. That
slow, dangerous kind of smile. Like he
already knew how this ends. There was a man
sitting in the corner of the car wash, wrapped
in a navy wool blanket, his eyes grey with
something not of this world. People called
him uMprofethi — the Prophet. Mostly
laughed at him. Said he used to be a soldier
who came back different. Saw too much. Or
maybe saw too far. I walked past him quickly,
trying not to look rude.
Him: “Tholakele Vilakazi,”
he croaked. I stopped cold. He didn’t look at
me. Just spoke to the air.
Him: “You are the girl they will burn churches
for. The one he will kill kings for. The one
who makes re fall in love with flesh.”
I froze. Goosebumps ran all over me.
He looked up then. Straight at me. His irises
weren’t grey anymore — they were red.
Him: “Don’t stare too long at a man who was
born in flame. You’ll forget what it's like to be
untouched.”
I backed away slowly, heart hammering, chest
tight. Everyone else? Still dancing. Still
spraying water. Still flirting over engines. Only
I seemed to notice the prophecy brewing in
the corner. And when I turned to nd
Zakhelikhaya again...
He was gone. That night, I sat on my bed with
the lights off, trying to breathe normal. Trying
to ignore the writing that now appeared on
the wall just outside Gogo’s yard. This time it
said:
"They warned you. But you looked anyway."
Written in the same thick, blood-like red. I
didn’t scream. I just curled into myself.
Because deep down… I knew I was already
his. The next morning, my hands shook as I
washed the dishes at Gogo’s house. The
water was hot, but it couldn’t burn away the
chill creeping through me. Every time I
closed my eyes, I saw the Prophet’s face —
his wild eyes glowing like embers. His words
echoed louder than the pounding rain that
started outside:

"You are the girl they will burn churches for.

The one he will kill kings for. The one who
makes re fall in love with flesh."
What did that even mean? I tried to shake it
off. But the truth was— I was tired of
running. I was tired of hiding. And maybe,
just maybe, I wanted to know what re felt
like. Later that day, I found myself back at the
car wash. Not because I had to. Because I
wanted to. The air was thick with soap and
sweat and the sound of splashing water. A
few familiar faces called greetings, but my
eyes searched only one place. Zakhelikhaya
was there. Leaning against a wall, arms
crossed, eyes burning. Our gazes locked.
No words.
No smiles.
Just the promise of chaos waiting to ignite.
As I turned to leave, my phone buzzed. A
message from an unknown number:
“Stop running, Tholakele. The re is closer
than you think.”

I swallowed hard. Because the truth was—

the flames were already licking at my feet.
That night, I barely slept. Every time I closed
my eyes, I saw the red letters bleeding on the
walls. I heard the Prophet’s voice whispering
in the dark. I felt Zakhelikhaya’s gaze burning
into my skin like a brand. By morning, I knew
one thing: This re wasn’t just a warning. It
was a reckoning. The next day, I walked past
the car wash again, the heat pressing down
like a weight. The water hoses hissed, soap
bubbles floated in the air. But something was
different. A crowd had gathered, hushed and
watching. In the middle, the Prophet stood
silent, staring at the ground. I pushed
through the crowd and saw what everyone
was staring at: A fresh message scrawled in
thick, red paint on the cracked concrete
sidewalk.
“Don’t look away, Tholakele. The re chooses
its own.”
I swallowed hard. The re had found me. And
it wasn’t done.

After the crowd had dispersed, I lingered

behind the car wash, my heartbeat thudding
in my ears louder than the distant township
noise. The air was thick — heavy with dust,
soap, and something darker. I didn’t expect to
nd him there.
Zakhelikhaya. Leaning against the wall, eyes
darker than the wet asphalt. He didn’t say a
word.
He just reached out slowly, holding
something small in his hand. A worn
photograph. He held it out to me without
looking up. My breath caught. It was a picture
of a little girl. Dark curls, bright eyes, a smile
that didn’t know fear.
Me: “Who is this?”
I asked, voice barely a whisper.
Still no answer. He stepped closer, and the
heat from his body wrapped around me like a
warning.
Him: “Someone you’ll have to protect,” he
nally said, his voice low and steady.
Him: “Because re doesn’t just burn the past,”
he said.
Him: “It burns the future too.”

CHAPTER 8

The morning sun streamed through the dusty

curtains as I sat at my small dressing table,
twisting a lock of hair around my nger. My
reflection looked back, calm and composed.
But if you peeled back the surface, you’d see
the soft purple arcs along my ribs, the
yellow-green bloom beneath my collarbone. I
pressed a thumb to one of the marks,
wincing at the tender spot. They weren’t new.
I’d collected them over years—each one a
memory of holding my tongue instead of
crying, of swallowing my pain when he raised
his hand. Gogo’s door creaked open behind
me. She climbed onto the stoep, machete in
hand—her morning ritual of cutting rewood.
Gogo: “Good morning, ngane,”
she called, voice gentle.
Gogo: “You look quiet.”
I forced a smile.
Me: “Just thinking.”
She paused, watching me with eyes sharper
than any blade.
Gogo: “Sometimes you wear your heart on
your face, but hide the bruises on your soul.”
I looked away before she could see the tears
well up. No one liked sympathy. Least of all
me. By midday, I was back at work in the
boutique. Folding dresses, helping
customers, forcing laughter when they
complimented my calm, pleasant manner. I
faked con dence the way I faked sleep the
nights he screamed my name. That afternoon,
a co-worker noticed me arching forward to
hide my side. She stopped folding skirts and
touched my arm.
Gogo: “Hey, are you okay?”
she asked.
Gogo: “You’ve been quiet.”
My stomach twisted. I wanted to brush past
her, to disappear into a rack of colorful
dresses. But her concern was a gentle hand I
didn’t know how to push away.
Me: “I’m ne,”
I said, voice flat. She frowned but didn’t press
it. I slipped away to the stockroom, shut the
door, and sank to the floor. My back pressed
against the cold wall as I pulled my top down
just enough to glimpse the bruise there. I
traced its edge with trembling ngers. If I
stayed here long enough, the pain would
become a dull ache—like the memory of a
song you once loved. That evening, I found
myself at the car wash again—drawn by
some invisible thread. The Prophet’s words
still haunted me: “You are the girl they will
burn churches for.”
I sat at the edge of the forecourt, the water
spray from passing cars cooling my
overheated skin. My top rode up, revealing
half of a bruise shaped like a crescent moon.
I pressed my sleeve against it. Behind me, a
familiar engine growled. I turned to see
Zakhelikhaya step out of his red Golf. He
watched me quietly for a moment, then
walked over without a word.
Zakhe: “Show me,”
he said softly. My heart raced. I hesitated,
then lifted my sleeve just enough. His breath
caught.
Zakhe: “Why hide these?”
he whispered. I swallowed.
Me: “Because they remind me of who I was
before I learned to survive.”
He knelt beside me, studying that arch of
purple and green. Then, gently, he laid a
hand over it—his palm warm against my chill.
Zakhe: “Not on my watch,”
he said. I looked into his eyes, those
shisanyama eyes that still burned with
impossible intensity. In that moment, I
realized something: I had been hiding my
bruises for so long, I forgot how to show
them to someone who might care. I lowered
my sleeve fully now, letting the bruise take its
place in the open. It throbbed, but it didn’t
sting as sharply anymore. Together, we sat on
that concrete slab under the afternoon sun—
my bruise on display, his hand steadying me.
No words, just presence. A promise that
maybe, for the rst time, I didn’t have to hide.
 We stayed there until the sky turned bruised
itself—lavender fading into charcoal. The
hum of the car wash slowed to a distant
whisper, and even the crickets seemed to
pause, waiting. I turned my head to look at
him. Zakhelikhaya’s hand lingered on my side,
gentle but rm, as if anchoring me to
something real. The ache of the bruise felt
different now—less like a prison, more like
proof that I was still here. Still breathing. Still
ghting.
Me: “Why do you do this?”
I whispered, voice raw.
Me: “Why do you care about my scars?”
He studied my face in silence, eyes reflecting
the rst stars.
Zakhe: “Because every mark on you tells a
story,”
he said nally.
Zakhe: “And I need to know them all.”
His words cracked something open in me. All
the shame I’d carried, the guilt of surviving,
the fear that someone else’s blade would
always be closer than mine—it poured out in
a single breath. I leaned into him, letting the
memories spill: the day he’d slammed me
against the wall, the night I’d cried under my
blanket, the morning I’d convinced myself it
was my fault. Each confession burned hotter
than the bruise itself, but with his arms
around me, it didn’t hurt quite so much.
When I nished, the night was still. I felt
weightless and raw—stripped of every lie I’d
told myself. Zakhelikhaya pressed his lips to
my temple.
Zakhe: “You’re safe now,”
he promised. For the rst time, I believed
him. I didn’t go home that night. Instead, he
drove me to a quiet hill overlooking the
township lights. We sat in the silent car, the
engine off, and watched the world below—a
tapestry of shadows and res, of pain and
possibility. I rolled down the window, letting
the cool breeze carry away the last of my fear.
I closed my eyes and whispered,
Me: “Thank you.”
He didn’t smile. He just nodded, the
streetlamp’s glow outlining his pro le. And in
that moment, I realized: the bruises I hide are
not my weakness—they are my history. And
with him by my side, they might just become
my strength. The silence between us was
thick, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind
of silence where words felt too heavy, too
fragile to carry what was really happening.
Zakhelikhaya’s hand rested on my side, but
not pressing, just there—steady and patient. I
let myself breathe out the tension I’d been
holding for years, slowly realizing that maybe,
just maybe, I could let someone in without
fearing the damage they might cause.
Me: “Tell me,”
I whispered after a long pause,
Me: “what happened to you? What made re
live inside your heart?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze
dropped to the bruise, tracing its shape with
the tip of his nger.
Zakhe: “My re…”
he said softly,
Zakhe: “…was born from the ashes of a
world that tried to break me too. But I learned
that re doesn’t just destroy—it also
cleanses.”
I looked up at him, seeing a flicker of pain
and something like hope in his eyes.
Me: “And now?”
I asked, my voice barely a breath.
Zakhe: “Now,”
he said,
Zakhe: “I burn to protect. To rewrite what was
written in blood and fear.”
The night wrapped around us like a cloak.
And in that quiet moment, beneath the cold
stars and the warm hum of the township, I felt
something shift inside me—an ember
flickering to life. Maybe this re, erce and
dangerous as it was, wasn’t the enemy after
all. Maybe it was the only thing strong
enough to heal the bruises I hid.

CHAPTER 9
Zakhe’s POV

They say a man who burns for someone else

risks getting consumed himself. I don’t care.
Tholakele is re itself—wild, erce, and
unforgiving. And I’m the storm chasing that
flame, no matter the cost. The streets whisper
about her now. About the girl whose name is
painted in blood-red letters on every wall the
city tries to forget. About the girl who wears
her bruises like a secret badge—one I’m
determined to shield, no matter what it takes.
Tonight, I’m at the shisanyama, the smoke
curling around me like a warning. My eyes
scan every face, every corner—looking for
the shadows that threaten her peace. I know
they’re out there. Men who’d like to see her
broken again. I won’t let it happen.

My phone buzzes. A message from one of

my men:
“Vilakazi’s father spotted near BP. He’s back.”
My blood boils. That man tried to kill her.
Tried to erase her. I’ll burn down everything
he owns before I let him touch her again. I’m
on my feet, storming through the township
streets with the fury of a man possessed. No
warnings. No mercy. I nd him—drunk, loud,
stumbling through his own lies. His eyes
meet mine, and I see the fear I’ve planted
there. I don’t speak. I don’t need to.
My sts do the talking. When I’m done, I
kneel close to his face and hiss:
“You’re not safe there anymore. Not
anywhere. Because I’m coming. And I don’t
stop.”
I walk away, the re inside me roaring louder.
Because when you love someone like
Tholakele… You become a force the world
can’t ignore. The night swallowed me whole
as I stormed through the narrow streets, the
shouts and curses fading behind me. Blood
pounding in my ears, sts clenched like iron
traps. Vilakazi’s father wasn’t just a man — he
was a symbol of everything I wanted to burn
down. Every crooked smile, every lie, every
bruise on Tholakele’s skin was a scar I wanted
to erase with re and fury. I found him
slumped against a wall outside a shebeen,
eyes glazed, smelling of cheap liquor and
rotten pride. He looked up when I appeared,
confusion twisting his features into fear.
Me: “You don’t belong here,”
I said low, voice rough like gravel. He tried to
rise, but I was faster. My st cracked against
his jaw, hard enough to send a message.
Zakhe: “I told you — you’re not safe here. Not
near her.”
He spat blood and cursed, but I wasn’t
listening. This wasn’t about him anymore.
This was about her. About protecting the light
that had somehow slipped through my
darkness. I leaned in close, voice a
dangerous whisper.
Me: “Stay away. Or I swear, next time, it won’t
just be a warning.”
He blinked, defeated and broken. I turned
away without looking back, every muscle still
coiled, ready to strike again if needed. As I
walked back toward the shisanyama, the
weight of what I’d done settled like smoke in
my lungs. This was war. A war for Tholakele’s
safety. And I’d ght until there was nothing
left but ashes and victory. The cool night air
did nothing to calm the re raging inside me.
I lit a cigarette, the flare of the flame matching
the fury in my eyes. Each drag was a battle to
keep the chaos contained—because this war
wasn’t just mine. It was hers too. I needed to
protect her. From the past. From the present.
From everything that wanted to rip her away. I
thought about her bruises—how she tried to
hide them, how she carried her pain in
silence.
No more silence.
No more hiding. I made a promise—silent
but sacred—that every breath I took would be
for her safety.
Even if it meant walking through re myself. I
flicked the cigarette away and started back
toward the shisanyama. Tonight, I was no
longer just a man in love. I was a guardian.
A storm.
A reckoning.

As I walked back through the dusty streets,

the weight of what I’d done settled heavy on
my chest. I wasn’t proud — but I was
necessary. Every scar on her skin, every
threat to her peace, fanned the flames inside
me. I clenched my sts tight, feeling the burn
of resolve in my bones. This wasn’t just love
— it was survival.
And no one was going to hurt her while I still
drew breath. I lit another cigarette, the smoke
twisting in the night air like the promises I’d
keep.
You’re not safe there, Tholakele.
But I will be your shield.
The ght was just beginning. As I walked
back through the maze of streets, the city felt
different — quieter, but heavy with eyes
watching, waiting. I knew this wasn’t over. I
pulled my hoodie tighter around me. The
weight of what I’d done pressed down, but it
was nothing compared to the promise I’d
made.
She’s mine to protect. No matter what.
Ahead, the shisanyama glowed like a beacon
in the night. I spotted her there — laughing
with her friends, unaware of the war raging
around her. For a moment, I hesitated,
wanting to hold her close, to shield her from
all the darkness. But I didn’t. Not yet. I’d
earned her trust
one battle at a time. And I’d ght for every
moment of it.

CHAPTER 10

The night air was thick with smoke and

pulsing bass as I stepped into the open
courtyard behind the shisanyama. Strings of
bare bulbs cast rippling shadows across
cracked concrete, and the crowd moved like a
single living thing—undulating, hungry, alive.
Bawinile already had us a spot by the
makeshift dance floor, her hips swaying to
Gqom beats as she called,
Bawi: “Come dance, Thola! Burn away your
demons!”
I hesitated. My body still carried echoes of
pain—every bruise, every scalding
memory—but that only made the beat feel
more irresistible. Maybe this was the one
place I could forget the scars for a moment,
and just be flame in human form. I slipped
out of my jacket, letting it pool at my feet like
a discarded promise, and stepped onto the
rough concrete. The heat from the open res
and the bodies pressed close warmed me—
and I felt a spark ripple through my chest.
Music exploded into a new track. The rhythm
was raw and relentless, like a pounding st
against a closed door. I closed my eyes and
let the sound move me. My feet tapped,
knees bent, arms curved like embers
reaching for air. Each step felt like shedding a
layer of the past. Across the glow of the
courtyard, I caught sight of Zakhelikhaya
leaning against a pillar, arms crossed,
watching. His gaze was constant—protective,
erce, hungry. My pulse throbbed in time
with the beat, and I wondered if he saw the
same thing I felt: not a frightened girl hiding
bruises, but a woman on re. Bawinile twirled
up to me, daring me with a grin. “Show me
you’re not afraid of the flames!” she shouted
over the bass. I laughed, the sound raw and
unexpected, and pulled her into the circle.
Together, we let the music take over—body
and soul in sync with the chaos around us.
Beads of sweat glistened on my forehead as I
danced, each movement a declaration: I am
more than my scars. I am strength. I am light.
I am flame.
Somewhere nearby, Samu’s soft prayers
echoed under her breath, grounding me
when the world felt like it might spin out of
control. She caught my eye for a moment and
smiled—a gentle reminder that I wasn’t alone.
As the song reached its crescendo, I spun on
one foot, arms outstretched, and felt every
bruise along my ribs pulse like a constellation
of hurt. Then I threw my head back and
laughed aloud, a single, unrestrained note of
de ance. The crowd cheered, and for a
heartbeat, the only thing that existed was this:
me, dancing like re, unafraid to burn.
That’s when I felt his hand on my arm. Solid,
grounding. I turned, breath heaving, and saw
Zakhelikhaya’s storm-dark eyes softened by
something like awe.
Zakhe: “Beautiful,”
he murmured, voice swallowed by the beat.
Zakhe: “You were dancing for me.”
I shook my head, heart pounding more wildly
than the music.
Me: “No,”
I said, voice erce.
Me: “I was dancing for myself.”
He only smiled, a slow curve of promise and
possession.
Zakhe: “Then let me guard your flames,”
he whispered. In that moment, the music
shifted to a slower, deeper rhythm. He took
my hand, leading me away from the crowd
toward the edge of the courtyard, where the
res died down to embers. I felt my pulse
settle, the harshness of the world recede. We
stood close, the heat of the coals at our feet,
and for a time, the only sound was our
breathing and the distant echoes of laughter
and drums.
Zakhe: “Girls who dance with re,”
he said softly,
Zakhe: “must learn to trust someone not to let
them burn.”
I looked into his eyes, saw the erce promise
there, and realized that trusting him was the
next step in my own reckoning—with my
past, my pain, and the erce hope of what
could be. And so I nodded, allowing him to
pull me close, the music a distant heartbeat
behind us, as the embers glowed red at our
feet. I leaned into Zakhelikhaya’s warmth. The
sharpness that usually clung to him—like the
scent of metal and danger—was still there,
but softer now. Blended with the smoke and
music, it felt like home in a way I wasn’t ready
to admit out loud. He didn’t say much, and I
didn’t need him to. His presence beside me
was loud enough. Solid. Steady. A man who
didn’t flinch when I burned too hot. The
crowd behind us roared as the DJ dropped
another heavy bassline, and I watched
Bawinile get lifted onto someone’s shoulders,
her laughter flying into the sky like sparks. I
turned back to him.
Me: “You ever dance?”
I asked, playfully nudging his side. He
smirked.
Zakhe: “Only when I’ve killed something
inside me.”
I blinked. He added,
Zakhe: “And only when no one’s watching.”
My stomach fluttered. That darkness in him—
it called to something in me. Something I
didn’t want to name. He leaned against the
wall, his eyes still xed on me like I was the
only thing moving in the world.
Zakhe: “When you dance, you look like
revenge wrapped in velvet.”
I laughed.
Me: “That’s the most beautiful and toxic
compliment I’ve ever received.”
He didn’t smile.
Zakhe: “I meant every word.”
The heat between us sharpened then—tense
and crackling like lightning before a storm.
My heart beat so loud it drowned out the
music. I took a step closer, chin tilted up.
Me: “Why are you really watching me,
Zakhelikhaya?”
He didn’t blink.
Zakhe: “Because the rst time I saw you, I
knew I’d kill anyone who tried to put your re
out.”
The words hit something deep. And terrifying.
Because I believed him. Every blood-stained
syllable. Before I could say anything, a loud
pop sounded in the distance—like a bottle or
a rework, but wrong. Too sharp. People
screamed. A sudden rush of movement
rippled through the courtyard as everyone
scrambled.
Me: “Gunshots?”
I whispered, my body stiffening.
Zakhelikhaya’s arm was around me in an
instant.
Zakhe: “Stay behind me.”
Everything shifted—his posture, his breath,
the way he scanned the shadows. Like a lion
slipping into kill mode.
Me: “Don’t go,”
I whispered. My voice cracked on the last
word. He turned, looked down at me with
something that might’ve been softness—if it
hadn’t been soaked in danger.
Zakhe: “I’ll always come back to the re,”
he said.
Zakhe: “Especially when you’re in it.”
Then he was gone. Slipping into the chaos
like smoke through a crack. And I was left
standing there, heart thundering, tears
burning the back of my throat, the echo of his
promise clinging to my skin. This wasn’t just
a boy who liked me. This was a man willing
to bleed for me. And maybe, just maybe… I
was willing to burn for him. The beat picked
up again after the gunshot scare—because in
our world, danger came and went like the
wind. People returned to their drinks, their
laughter, their groove. But I didn’t. I couldn’t
shake Zakhelikhaya’s words.
“I’ll always come back to the re. Especially
when you’re in it.”

He saw me. Not just the girl with soft lips and
loud friends. Not just Gogo Deli’s
granddaughter. He saw the cracked parts, the
ones my father shattered and no one ever
noticed. He looked at me like he knew I
carried scars underneath my foundation and
a blade in my voice when I laughed too hard.
I sat back down on the low brick wall next to
the grill, pulling my knees up slightly. My
hands were trembling, not from fear… but
from wanting. Wanting to know what it felt
like to be chosen like that. Protected like that.
To be the reason a man sharpens his knives
and softens his eyes. My phone buzzed. A
message from Mbalenhle.
Mbalenhle:
“Are you still with that tall devil? I
saw the way he watches you, Thola. Be
careful. Or don’t. Idk. Just text me if you need
help hiding a body.”
I smiled, typing back:
Tholakele: “Maybe I want to be the kind of girl
bodies are hidden for.”
As I hit send, the breeze carried his scent
back to me—engine oil, tobacco, and warm
spice. I turned. Zakhelikhaya stood in the
shadows, near the exit. Bloody knuckles.
Dark eyes. Breathing hard like he just ran…
or fought. He walked straight to me.
Zakhe: “Someone followed you here,”
he said.
Zakhe: “A man. Older. Grey cap. Limp.
Recognize him?”
My blood ran cold.
Me: “My… father,”
I whispered.
Zakhelikhaya nodded once.
Zakhe: “He won’t try again. Not tonight.”
I stood slowly.
Me: “What did you do?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he pulled something from his
pocket—a folded piece of paper.
I frowned.
Me: “You don’t strike me as a note-writing
guy.”
He handed it to me. I unfolded it, expecting
threats, warnings, maybe his number. But it
was my name.
THOLAKELE
Written in red. Scrawled like fury. Almost
smeared.
"I don’t write letters. I write names in blood
so the world doesn’t forget who I love."
I looked up at him, breath caught between
ribs.
Me: “You’re dangerous,”
I said. His mouth curved slightly.
Zakhe: “I am.”
Me: “And you think I’m not scared?”
Zakhe: “I hope you are.”
He stepped closer.
Zakhe: “Because girls who dance with re
should know they might burn.”
Then he left me there again—heart cracking,
lungs burning, holding the blood-marked
name like a warning and a vow. And I
knew… This wasn’t the start of a love story.
This was the spark that would destroy
everything.
CHAPTER 11
Zakhe’s POV

It wasn’t paint. Not that watered-down stuff

they splash on township walls. It was blood.
Still warm.
Still dripping.
Still carrying the message I needed them to
hear.
“STAY AWAY FROM HER.”
I stepped back and looked at the house. One
of the men who laid a hand on Tholakele
lived here —
used to, anyway. The door was cracked. The
silence behind it was loud. I didn’t go in. I
didn’t need to. This wasn’t about revenge. It
was about warning. Letting them know the
war had begun. And I wasn’t ghting fair. I
walked away before the sirens came. Before
nosy neighbors peeked through curtains.
I disappeared like I always did — smoke in
the wind. But I left behind my name.
Scrawled below the blood.
Z.Z.
Let them guess what it meant. Let them pray
she never cried to me again.
Because if she did —
God help whoever made her cry.

Later that night… I watched from the BP

garage as she danced with her friends under
the floodlights. Laughing. Smiling. Free. She
didn’t know. Not yet. That someone bled for
the bruise she tried to hide with foundation.
That someone bled because she’s the only
soft thing I’ve ever wanted to keep intact. That
someone bled —
because I love her. And I’d do it again.

I don’t knock.
I don’t wait.
I warn.
The blood on his doorstep isn’t just about
what he did — it’s about what I’ll do next if
anyone else touches her.
I remember the rst time I saw her limping
slightly, pretending it was her shoes. The soft
way she laughed when her friend teased her
about being clumsy. But I saw it. The
stiffness. The flash of pain she tried to hide
when she sat down too quickly.
And I’d followed the scent of danger back to
him — her father. Pretending to be proud,
pretending to be protective. But I saw through
that smile. He was a man who wore cruelty
like a second skin. I watched him for days.
Learning his routine.
Counting the ways I could end him and still
sleep at night. But this wasn’t the chapter
where he died.
No.
This was just the rst page of fear.
I took his front door and turned it into a
mirror. Letting him see his sins in red.
Letting her name bleed where his pride used
to live.
THOLAKELE.
Written in blood.
Every letter a vow.
Every drop a promise.
That she’d never be unsafe again.

A Few Hours Later — Same Night

I’m parked outside her grandmother’s house.
Gogo Deli’s lights are still on — she always
waits up until Thola’s inside. She’s safe.
Tonight. But my hands are still stained. The
smell of copper clings to me like guilt. And
yet… I don’t feel guilty. Not when I think
about the crack I heard in her voice that day
when she said,
"Sometimes I think love means surviving
people who say they love you."
She’ll never have to survive me. I don’t want
her afraid of me. I just want her to know —
there’s a man out here who’d rather the world
burn than watch her bleed again. Even if that
man ends up in hell for it. The township
never truly sleeps — and neither do I. After
leaving that red warning smeared on his
doorstep, I drifted through the shadows like a
ghost. Every muscle wound tight, every
sense alert. I had to make sure she was safe.
Back at BP Garage, the night had thickened
into something raw and restless. Tholakele
was there, surrounded by her friends, the
sparkle in her eyes brighter than the
streetlights. But I saw past that. I saw the
bruise on her ribs, the way she flinched when
someone bumped her, the way she held her
breath when the wind shifted wrong. She
didn’t ask for this war. But she’d found me —
and I wasn’t letting go. I slipped closer, my
voice low and rough.
Me: “Tonight, you’re not alone.”
She looked up, surprise flickering in her gaze.
I couldn’t promise the world was safe. But I
could promise I’d ght to make it so. The
blood on that doorstep was just the
beginning. This war was far from over. And I
was ready to burn.

CHAPTER 12
I had a dream last night. Not the kind that
floats — the kind that clings to your skin like
smoke. He was there. Zakhelikhaya. Standing
in the middle of re, bare-chested, blood on
his knuckles and my name tattooed across
his heart. When I woke up, the dream didn’t
leave. It followed me. Through the morning
traf c. Through the silence at Gogo Deli’s
house. Through the mirror when I traced my
collarbone and imagined his name there. I
shouldn't have gone to the car wash. I
shouldn't have looked for him. But I did. And
there he was — Zakhelikhaya Zulu, like a
curse I couldn’t shake. Leaning against his car
like he owned every breath I took.
Zakhe: "You dream about me, Tholakele?"
His voice was quiet. Dangerous.
Me: "No,"
I lied. His smirk told me he heard the truth
anyway.
Zakhe: "Then why do you look like you miss
me when I’m not looking?"
I didn’t answer. Because if I said it out loud
— that I thought of him when I changed
clothes, when I showered, when I lay in bed
with my ngers curled tight from wanting —
it would make it real. He stepped forward. So
close I could smell the mint on his breath,
the leather on his jacket, the blood on his
soul.
Zakhe: "I had your name on my mind when I
spilled his,"
he whispered.
Me: "My father?"
His jaw clenched.
Zakhe: "You’re not safe with him. And I told
you — anyone who hurts you, dies
bleeding."
I should’ve walked away. But instead, I turned
my back to him, lifted my shirt, and showed
him the space between my shoulder blades.
Me: "Then write it, Zakhe."
He froze.
Zakhe: "What?"
Me: "Your name. On me. If you’re going to
haunt me, I want the ghost to leave a mark."
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t smirk.
He just looked like a man who had already
written it — in every bullet, in every drop of
blood, in every breath he’d stolen for me.
Later that night, when I traced the black ink
now fresh between my shoulders, I didn’t
regret it.
Z.Z.
Bold. Permanent. A vow inked in chaos. I
didn’t sleep that night. I lay on my stomach,
the ink still fresh, the skin still tender. Every
throb reminded me of his voice. His breath
on my neck. His ngers, rough from
everything he’s done, gentle where he
touched me.
Z.Z.
It wasn’t just initials. It was a warning. A
prayer. A signature from a man who didn’t ask
for permission — just left proof that he was
here. I could still hear Gogo Deli’s words from
earlier:
Gogo: “You’re playing with wild re, mntanami.
And wild re don’t care who it burns — even
the one who feeds it.”
She saw it in my eyes — that I’d let
Zakhelikhaya burn me if it meant he’d never
leave. I pressed a pillow into my face, trying
to silence the scream I didn’t want to release.
Because it was too much. The way he saw
me. The way he knew me. The way I wanted
him even after everything. And maybe that
was what terri ed me the most. That my
father’s shadow never made me feel as alive
as Zakhelikhaya’s danger did.
**
I didn’t hear the knock. But I felt him. I
opened the door and there he was —
drenched in rain, eyes storm-dark.
Me: “You’re bleeding,”
I whispered.
He looked down at his knuckles.
Zakhe: “Not mine.”
Of course not.
His eyes slid down my body, pausing on the
place where his name was etched into me
forever.
Zakhe: “You let them mark you?”
he asked.
Me: “No.”
Zakhe: “I don’t share, Tholakele.”
Me: “It’s yours,”
I whispered.
Me: “You wrote it.”
The silence after that was thick. It held our
breaths hostage. It made everything slow. He
stepped in, water dripping from his hoodie. I
didn’t move.
Me: “You’ve ruined me,” I told him.
He smiled — but it was sad. A smile that
belonged to a man who knew he’d never live
a normal life, but found peace in destroying
anything that touched what he loved.
Zakhe: “You were already ruined,”
he said.
Zakhe: “I just gave the re a name.”
He leaned in, kissed the space just below my
tattoo — soft, like a prayer.
Zakhe: “I’ll keep writing, Thola. Until this
whole place knows who you belong to.”
**
Later, when he disappeared into the dark like
he always does, I didn’t cry. I sat on the floor.
Shirt off. The candlelight flickering on my
spine. Tracing the edges of his name. And for
the rst time in years, I wasn’t scared of being
owned. I was scared of losing him. By
morning, the pain was dull, but the meaning
was sharper than ever. I wore a long-sleeved
top, not because I wanted to hide it — but
because I didn’t want anyone else looking.
That name wasn’t for the world. It was for me.
A secret oath inked in pain and desire. I
walked through the taxi rank like nothing had
changed, but everything had. The girls
whispered. The guys looked twice. And I
knew why.
Zakhelikhaya had a way of changing the air
around a person — even when he wasn’t
near. And now that I had his name… it was
like the ghosts of his enemies watched me
too. I got to the salon, but I didn’t go inside.
Instead, I sat on the bench outside, pulled out
my phone, and stared at his name in my
contacts: Zakhelikhaya Zulu .
I didn’t call him. I didn’t need to. Because the
next moment, a black Mercedes-Benz pulled
up slow. No hooting. No music. Just the hum
of something expensive and dangerous. The
window rolled down. And there he was.
Looking at me like I was the only thing left
worth protecting in this broken world.
Zakhe: “Get in,”
he said. I hesitated. Just one second. Just
long enough for fear to whisper run. But I
didn’t run. I opened the door. Sat beside him.
Silence. Tension. Breath. He didn’t even look
at me when he spoke.
Zakhe: “You keep letting people touch what’s
mine,”
he said.
Zakhe: “You won’t have a home left to run to.”
Me: “I’m not yours,”
I snapped back, even though we both knew
that was a lie. He nally turned his head. Eyes
on me. Voice low.
Zakhe: “You got my name on your skin,
Thola. That’s deeper than a promise. That’s a
sentence.”
I should’ve been scared. Instead, I whispered,
Zakhe: “Then I guess I’m serving life.”
And when he kissed me — slow, hot, with
hands that knew how to ruin and worship all
at once — I let him.
Because love like this isn’t soft. It’s carved
into flesh. It’s re you don’t run from. It’s him.
The car hummed as it moved through the
township streets, silent except for our
breathing. His hand was still resting on my
thigh — not possessive, but present. Like he
needed to feel I was still there. I looked out
the window, heart rattling in my chest. I didn’t
know where we were going, but I didn’t ask
either. With Zakhelikhaya, asking questions
felt like disturbing the balance of something
ancient and dangerous. If he wanted me to
know, he’d show me. And he always did — in
ways I never expected. We nally pulled into
a gravel path, hidden behind a row of
overgrown trees near the edge of the
township. A white double-storey house stood
ahead. Isolated. Beautiful. Too quiet. He
opened the door for me. I stepped out, still
silent. He didn’t speak until we were inside.
Zakhe: “This is mine,”
he said.
Zakhe: “Built it for my mother. But she never
made it.”
I turned to face him.
Me: “What happened?”
He shrugged.
Zakhe: “Cancer happened. Regret happened.
Not saying ‘I love you’ enough happened.”
His voice cracked slightly on that last part.
Just for a moment. And then, as if I had no
say in it, he pulled me into his chest. Not like
a lover. Not like a boss. Like a broken man
who needed something whole to hold onto
— even if just for a second.
Zakhe: “You remind me of her,”
he whispered into my hair.
Zakhe: “She was soft… like you. But re
under the softness.”
I looked up.
Me: “Then why do you treat me like I’m
disposable?”
He pulled back and locked his jaw.
Zakhe: “Because re gets people killed.”
I touched the spot over my ribs where his
name lived now — still raw, still healing.
Me: “And love?”
I asked. He didn’t answer.Instead, he took off
his hoodie. Turned around. And I saw it —
my name — scarred into his back.
THOLAKELE.
Carved like it was a ritual. I gasped.
Me: “Zakhe…”
Zakhe: “Now you know,”
he said simply.
Zakhe: “Now you understand.”
There was a beat of silence. And then I ran to
him. Not because I had to. Because my body
moved before I could think. We kissed again
— this time harder, deeper. Our pain, our
loyalty, our anger, our lust — it all tangled
into one. And in that hidden house where no
one could judge us, I nally let go. Let go of
the shame.
Let go of my fear. And let myself feel what I’d
been denying since the rst time I saw him
staring at me from across the smoke and
meat of the shisanyama. I let myself fall —
because I already had. And the scariest part?
I didn’t want to get back up.

CHAPTER 13
I should’ve known something was off when
Bawi called me at 2AM, her voice shaky with
fake innocence.
Bawi: “Thola,”
she whispered like she was hiding in
someone’s bathroom.
Bawi: “I need you to not freak out…”
That’s how every disaster starts, right? When
your best friend says don’t freak out — start
freaking out. I sat up in bed, blinking at the
ceiling, heart already pounding. Zakhelikhaya
was fast asleep next to me, his breath even
and his hand still wrapped around my waist.
Me: “Where are you?”
 I whispered back, sliding out from under
Zakhe’s arm. She hesitated.
Bawi: “Uhm… remember that guy from the
car wash? The one with the gold tooth?”
Me: “No,”
I said flatly.
Me: “And I don’t think you should be
anywhere near a guy with a gold tooth at
2AM, Bawi.”
There was a pause.
Bawi: “Well… I kind of went to a party. With
him. And his boys.”
My heart dropped.
Me: “Bawi. Are you drunk?”
Bawi: “…Just a little.”
She giggled — but there was panic
underneath it. I knew that tone. That "I
messed up but don’t want to admit it" tone. I
grabbed my jeans, slipping them on quietly.
Me: “You need to send me your location.
Now.”
Bawi: “Thola—”
Me: “Now, Bawi!”
I ended the call and tiptoed toward the
bedroom door. Zakhelikhaya stirred but didn’t
wake. Outside, the wind had picked up. It
sounded like the township was holding its
breath.
She nally sent a location. Near the
scrapyard. The real red zone.
Damn it, Bawi.
By the time I got to her, the party was dying
down. Loud music was still pumping from a
speaker in the back of a bakkie. Girls were
passed out on plastic chairs. A guy was
peeing against a wall. And Bawi? My best
friend was stumbling out of the back of a VW
Golf, her bra twisted and her lipstick
smudged like a joke.
Bawi: “Tholaaaaa,”
she slurred.
Bawi: “I was just having fun—”
I grabbed her arm.
Me: “Fun doesn’t leave bruises on your neck,
Bawi!”
She froze. Then her eyes welled up with
tears.
Bawi: “I didn’t know they were recording
me…”
My blood ran cold.
What?
She collapsed into me, sobbing.
Bawi: “They said… they said if I snitch, they’ll
leak the video…”
My whole body went still. My best friend was
being blackmailed. Used. Exploited. By the
very dogs we warned each other about.
Me: “Who?”
I asked, my voice flat, deadly. She looked up.
And the name she said? Was one of
Zakhelikhaya’s men. Her voice cracked when
she said the name.
Bawi: “Spoko.”
The world tilted beneath my feet.
Spoko. Not just one of Zakhelikhaya’s men.
His right hand.
The one who always lingered too long when I
walked past. The one who smiled with his
teeth but never with his eyes. The one Zakhe
said was “loyal” — but gave me chills every
time he entered the room.
Me: “Did he…?”
I couldn’t say it. My throat tightened. Bawi
shook her head.
Bawi: “No. But he held me there. He… he
said I owed him. For the drinks. For the
‘vibe.’”
She made air quotes and burst into tears. I
held her tight as she crumbled in my arms,
right there on the pavement, surrounded by
shattered beer bottles and the reek of cheap
cologne and regret. I should’ve taken her
home. I should’ve let it go — cleaned her up,
held her, told her we’d x it. But something
inside me snapped. A switch flipped. And I
couldn’t stop the storm rising in my chest.
I called him.
Me: “Spoko.”
He answered on the second ring, his voice
smug.
Spoko: “Mfazi kaZakhe,”
he said, using that stupid nickname he gave
me.
Spoko: “What’s up?”
Me: “Meet me. Now.”
He laughed.
Spoko: “So aggressive. You’re not at the shisa
anymore?”
Me: “Scrapyard. Five minutes. Come alone.”
I hung up. Bawi clutched my arm.
Bawi: “Thola, no… please don’t—”
But it was too late. Five minutes later, he
pulled up in a black Golf, chewing gum like
he owned the night.
Spoko: “Damn, you came alone?”
he said, stepping out, arms wide like this was
a reunion. I walked up, calm on the outside.
Then I slapped him.
Hard. So hard the gum flew out of his mouth.
Spoko: “Uyahlanya?”
he shouted, grabbing his face.
Me: “No,”
I said, stepping closer, my voice low.
Me: “But I will be if you ever touch my friend
again.”
He laughed, but there was a flicker of fear in
his eyes now.
Spoko: “You think you can threaten me? You
think Zakhelikhaya would—”
Me: “Does he know?”
I cut him off. That shut him up. I nodded.
Me: “Didn’t think so. And if that video ever
sees the light of day, Spoko... it won’t just be
Zakhe you answer to. I’ll come for you
myself.”
He stared at me, lips twitching. He didn’t
respond. I turned to walk away, my sts still
clenched, blood boiling.
Spoko: “Tholakele!”
he called out behind me.
Spoko: “Be careful who you threaten. You
don’t know this game yet.”
I didn’t turn back.But my spine tingled with
warning. That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat on the
couch with Bawi, wrapped her in a blanket,
and let her cry. Her pain. My rage. The
silence between us full of everything we
didn’t say. And in my mind… I kept thinking
about Zakhelikhaya. Because if Spoko did this
— what did that say about the man I was
falling for? The man who swore to protect me.
The man who might have monsters in his
shadow. The next morning, sunlight spilled
through the curtains like nothing happened.
Like the night didn’t bleed. Like Bawi wasn’t
curled up on my bed, clutching my pillow like
it could erase memory. I sat by the window,
hoodie pulled over my head, staring out at
the township as it came alive. Car washes
opening. Kids chasing soccer balls barefoot.
Men in vests and chains drinking Black Label
before 10am. I hadn’t told Zakhelikhaya.
Not yet.
Not because I didn’t trust him.
But because I didn’t trust me.
What if he didn’t care?
What if he defended Spoko?
What if the man I was falling for — the one
who stared at me like I was re wrapped in
flesh — was part of the same rot that hurt
Bawi? I hadn’t slept. Just sat all night with
Bawi. She asked me not to tell anyone. I
didn’t argue. I just held her, both of us
shaking in silence. At 11:04am, my phone
vibrated.
ZAKHE

Him: “Ngicela ukukubona. Today. Come

hungry.”

I stared at the message for a long time. Then

I typed:

Me: “Where?”
He sent a location. It was a rooftop restaurant
in the city. One of those spots with fairy
lights, grilled meat platters and panoramic
views of the chaos below. I’d seen it on Insta.
But I wasn’t going for the food. I was going
for the truth.

As I got dressed, Bawi woke up. Her eyes

were swollen. Her voice hoarse.
Bawi: “Where you going?”
Me: “To get answers.”
She looked at me, panic rising.
Bawi: “Please. Don’t tell him.”
Me: “I won’t,”
I said, brushing her cheek.
Me: “Not yet. But I need to look him in the
eye. I need to know.”
She nodded slowly, her lip trembling.
Bawi: “Be careful, Thola. You’re not playing
with boys anymore. Zakhelikhaya… he’s war.”
I gave her a soft smile.
Me: “So am I.”

When Bawi nally fell asleep, it was with her

hoodie pulled over her face, arms tightly
wrapped around herself like she was trying to
disappear. I watched her chest rise and fall
from the edge of the bed, phone in hand,
unable to stop shaking. My messages with
Zakhelikhaya were still open. I scrolled
through them like they could calm me, like
they could remind me who he was—the man
who looked at me like I was something holy.
But something about tonight made it hard to
hold onto that version of him.
What if he was like the rest of them? What if
love wasn’t enough? I got up, walked to the
kitchen in the dark. The silence in Gogo Deli’s
house felt heavier tonight. Even the fridge
hum was quiet. I poured a glass of water,
trying to ground myself. But all I could see
was Bawi’s haunted eyes. Her trembling
hands. The way she flinched when I touched
her shoulder. Then I heard it.
A car.
Engine purring low. Not Gogo’s. Not any of
the usual neighbours. I stepped slowly to the
window, heart pounding. There, parked
outside—engine running, lights off—was a
black Golf 7 GTI. The same one Zakhelikhaya
drove. I froze. Then my phone lit up.

ZAKHE
“Ngibheke phandle.”

I didn’t move. Just stared at the screen. Then:

“I’m not here to take. I’m just watching.

Making sure you’re safe.”

Tears stung my eyes. He wasn’t here for

answers. He didn’t ask for anything. He
just… showed up. Silently. The way I wished
someone had done for Bawi. I wanted to run
out. To throw myself into that car, into his
arms, into the only place that had felt like
safety lately. But I stayed. Because tonight
wasn’t about me. I replied:

“She’s asleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He texted back one word:

“Ngiyalinda.”
(I’m waiting.)
Then the car drove off, slow, smooth…
disappearing into the night like smoke. Back
in the room, I slipped under the covers
beside Bawi. Her breathing was softer now.
The weight she carried had shifted, if only
slightly. I didn’t know what tomorrow would
bring. But one thing was clear: We were in
too deep now.
In the re. In the truth. In something we
couldn’t run from anymore.

CHAPTER 14

There’s something about the way your name

sounds when it’s said like a warning. Like a
siren. Like your ancestors are trying to hold
you back from the edge.
Gogo: “Tholakele, stay inside.”
Gogo Deli had never said my name like that
before. Her voice was sharp and quivering at
the same time, eyes scanning the street like
ghosts walked in daylight now.
Me: “I just need to go get airtime, Gogo,”
I replied gently, trying to slip on my
sneakers. She grabbed my arm—tight.
Gogo: “Not today. Please. You’ll thank me.”
I looked past her through the lace curtain.
Nothing but sunlight, old men on crates, kids
kicking a deflated soccer ball. Normal
township rhythm. Except it wasn’t. Because
silence sat between every breath. Because he
wasn’t there. No Golf. No Zakhelikhaya. No
text since last night. Bawi stirred on the
couch, her cheek bruised and swollen.
Bawi: “Thola…”
she mumbled, barely awake.
Me: “I’ll be back just now, Bawi,”
I whispered.
Me: “Just going to the tuckshop.”
Gogo Deli stepped in front of the door. I
blinked.
Gogo: “They’re watching you.”
she said. I froze.She lowered her voice.
Gogo: “The man who hurt Bawi? He was seen
asking about you. And your Zakhelikhaya?
The streets are quiet 'cause something’s
brewing. I don’t know what. But you—you
mustn’t move today.”
My heart sank. I sat down, sneakers still
untied. The day passed slowly. Like the
universe held its breath.
Zakhelikhaya didn’t text. Not once.
Bawi barely ate. Gogo Deli lit impepho in the
corners of the house. Prayed under her
breath. Every time a car passed, I jumped. I
kept hearing his voice in my head— That
calm way he said “Ngiyalinda.” Like he knew
something was coming. By evening, a
message nally came through:
ZAKHE
“Don’t open the door for anyone. Even if they
say it’s me.”

That’s all.
No “hi,”
No “I miss you.”
No “I’m okay.”
Just a warning.
That night, I locked the door. I placed Gogo’s
old broom behind it. I slept with my jeans on.
Phone in hand. And in the silence before
sleep, I wondered—
Who was I loving?
And who was coming for me?

I lay in bed but didn’t close my eyes.

My hand gripped my phone like it was a
weapon, the screen cracked from a fall weeks
ago, light blinking from that one last
message.
“Don’t open the door for anyone. Even if they
say it’s me.”
I replayed his voice in my mind, tried to
remember his scent—caramel tobacco and
rewood. It grounded me. Until another
sound pulled me out of my thoughts:
Whispers.
Outside.
Low. Male. Angry.
I sat up. Gogo Deli had fallen asleep on the
floor in her prayer corner. Bawi snored lightly
from the mattress near mine. I held my
breath, trying to hear properly.
“Uyangiqonda? Ungangeni phambili. Mthole
kuqala.”
(You understand? Don’t go in front. Find him
rst.)
I swallowed hard. Another voice, deeper,
replied:
“Uzakhele uyamfuna lo’ntombazane.”
(Zakhelikhaya wants that girl.)
No. That wasn’t him. That voice wasn’t him. I
pressed my hand to my chest. Someone was
pacing just outside. Their footsteps crushed
dry leaves and my nerves with every shift.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
A knock. Soft. Intentional. My blood froze.
The sound was deliberate. Knowing. Another
knock. Louder now.
Knock.
Knock.
Then silence. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.
Voice: “Tholakele,”
a voice called, right outside the window,
sugar-coated and sinister.
Voice: “It’s me. Zakhelikhaya.”
No, it’s not.
I knew it. My bones knew it.
Voice: “Open, sthandwa sami.”
I held my breath as tightly as I could. Then
suddenly—BOOM! The gate banged open.
Men were shouting. Someone ran. Another
cursed. Then came the gunshots.
Pop!
Pop!
Pop!
Three shots. Then silence. My ngers
trembled around my phone. I texted:
ME: I heard gunshots. Where are you?
No reply. I crawled to the window, heart
racing, and peeked through the corner of the
curtain. Blood. On the sand. A body. A car
speeding off. I stumbled back and hit the
wall. Gogo woke up with a gasp.
Gogo: “Yini le?!” (What’s that?!)
Me: “Gunshots,”
I said, voice cracking.
Me: “They were here.”
She reached for her walking stick and tried to
pull herself up, murmuring prayers. And I just
sat there.
Shaking. Wishing I never stepped into
Zakhelikhaya Zulu’s world. But knowing deep
in my gut— I’d do it again. Gogo Deli stood
now, shaky but rm, her worn shawl draped
over her shoulders like a warrior’s cloak.
Gogo: “Basukuma? Tholakele, uthe uthumele
umyalezo?” (Did he say he sent a message?)
I nodded, still kneeling at the window.
My phone lit up in my hand. A message.

Zakhelikhaya: I’m outside. Don’t open. I’ll

handle it.
But… Then who was knocking? Another
bang. This time at the back door. I gasped.
Me: “Gogo, they’re trying every way in,”
I whispered. She didn’t panic. She gripped
her small Bible and walked to the kitchen.
Slowly. Barefoot. I followed quietly, heart
hammering. From the shadows, Bawi nally
stirred,
Bawi: “Thola?”
she called out groggily. I turned quickly,
Me: “Stay on the floor, Bawi!”
Another knock. This time… the voice came
with it.
Voice: “Tholakele, open the door.
Zakhelikhaya sent me.”
I nearly laughed. It was so unconvincing, so
wrong, it almost felt like a joke. That’s not
how he sounded. That’s not how he loved me
in his voice. My ngers were cold. My legs
heavier than usual. Gogo whispered,
Gogo: “The blood of Jesus, cover this
house…”
Then a sound split through the night—
SCREEEEECH!
Tires. Fast. Rough. Loud. Then shouting.
Then: “Zulu! It’s Zulu!”
I flinched. Another gunshot. Two. A scream.
And then, silence. The silence that comes
when the devil leaves a doorstep. We didn’t
move until the dogs barked. Far off. Then
closer. Then more voices. Familiar ones.
Zakhe: “Tholakele!”
That voice.
Zakhe: “Thola, it’s me!”
I bolted to the door, despite Gogo’s hand
pulling at me. I opened it—just a crack. And
there he was. Zakhelikhaya Zulu. Blood on his
shirt. Dirt on his boots. A gun in his hand.
But his eyes—his eyes looked straight at me
like he’d die if I didn’t say something.
Me: “Are you hurt?”
I asked him.
Zakhe: “No. Not me,”
he said softly, stepping closer.
Zakhe: “But I didn’t get them all.”
Me: “Who—?”
He looked behind him. Then back at me.
Zakhe: “Your father. He’s the one sending
them.”
The world stilled. And I blinked—because
surely, I heard him wrong. I froze. My father?
My breath left my body like a whisper
through cracked lips. I stared at Zakhelikhaya,
my chest tightening.
Me: “What… what did you just say?”
He stepped into the doorway, towering,
furious, still heaving from whatever war he
had just fought to get here.
Zakhe: “I didn’t want to tell you like this,
Thola. Not here. Not now. But you needed to
know. You needed to stop defending that
man.”
I took a step back, my legs numb. My ears
ringing.
Me: “But—he’s my baba. Why would he—?”
Zakhe: “Because he tried to sell you,” he said.
Silence. The kind that made the soul weep. I
stared at him, my entire world cracking like
old glass.
Me: “You’re lying,”
I said, softly. Weakly. Zakhelikhaya's jaw
clenched.
Zakhe: “I have proof. He owes people money,
big money. And the minute you turned
twenty-one, he started negotiating with the
same men that used to own girls back in the
day. You were part of a debt repayment,
Thola.”
My knees buckled, but his arms caught me
before I hit the floor. I sobbed. Quietly.
Desperately. My cheek pressed against his
chest, his heartbeat pounding like war drums
beneath my ear. Gogo Deli stood in the
background. Still. Silent. Her tears doing the
talking.
Zakhe: “He’s trying to kill you because he
thinks if you’re gone,” Zakhelikhaya
whispered,
Zakhe: “then the debt dies with you.”
Me: “And you…”
I croaked.
Me: “Why do you keep showing up?”
He pulled back just enough to look into my
eyes.
Zakhe: “Because you’re mine.”
He didn’t say it like a possessive gangster. He
didn’t say it like someone who wanted to
control me. He said it like a man who would
bury himself in the dirt if it meant I’d live
another day.
Zakhe: “You’re mine,”
he repeated.
Zakhe: “Even if you don’t want to be. Even if
you never say it back.”
I closed my eyes, and for the rst time that
night, I felt safe. I felt claimed. And for a
second—for the smallest second—I didn’t
feel afraid. But the truth still lingered like
smoke in the air. My own father wanted me
dead. And Zakhelikhaya Zulu was willing to
kill to keep me alive.

CHAPTER 15

The air felt heavier after that night. My skin

carried Zakhelikhaya’s scent like a secret I was
too afraid to speak out loud. My body still
trembled with the aftermath of truth and fear.
Baba had tried to kill me. Baba. I hadn’t gone
back home since. Gogo Deli kept her silence,
but her eyes watched me with the kind of
sorrow only a woman who had survived too
much could understand. It was just after
sunset when the knock came. Not a knock on
a door. But on the gate. Three loud, slow
bangs.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
I froze on the couch, my spoon mid-air,
cereal forgotten. Gogo Deli turned from the
kitchen window, her hands dripping with
soap. We both knew what kind of knock that
was.
Not a friend.
Not a neighbour.
Not a Jehovah’s Witness.
Zakhelikhaya.
I rushed to the window. There was a car
parked just outside the gate, its lights off. He
wasn’t alone this time. Three men stood
beside him. Each one with a build that told a
story of war. Their presence buzzed with
danger, and my heart began pounding before
I even opened the curtain. I opened the gate
before Gogo could tell me not to.
Zakhe: “Thola,”
Zakhelikhaya said, eyes scanning my face like
he was memorising me again.
Zakhe: “Get your shoes. You’re coming with
me.”
I blinked.
Me: “What? Why?”
Zakhe: “They found your location. You have
ten minutes.”
Me: “Who—”
Zakhe: “My uncle’s men. I intercepted a
message from your father. He gave them this
address. They’re planning to grab you
tonight.”
My stomach turned.
Me: “How did he know where I was?”
Zakhe: “Someone saw you with me. Word got
around fast. I should’ve known better.”
I didn’t ask questions after that. I ran back
into the house, kissed Gogo Deli on the
cheek, whispered a goodbye with no time for
goodbye. Gogo handed me a bag already
packed. She knew this day would come. The
ride was silent, except for the throb of my
thoughts. Zakhelikhaya’s ngers tapped the
steering wheel. His men rode behind us in
another car. Every few seconds, I felt him
glance at me.
Me: “Where are we going?”
I asked quietly. He didn’t answer at rst.
Then—
Zakhe: “To a place where even the devils in
KZN don’t go.”
I laughed bitterly.
Me: “That bad?”
He glanced at me again, something burning
in his gaze.
Zakhe: “That safe.”

The knock at the gate had changed

everything. I wasn't just Tholakele anymore. I
was the girl being hunted. And the only
person between me and death… was the
man they called Zakhelikhaya Zulu. He didn’t
drive fast. He drove purposefully. Like he
already knew the roads by heart, knew where
the shadows lived and which robots were
faulty. The city lights faded behind us as he
took the back routes, the quiet ones with no
names and no cameras. I turned to him.
Me: “You’re calm.”
Zakhe: “I’ve been hunted my whole life, Thola.
The difference is… now I have something to
protect.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how to. We
stopped at a petrol station—one of those 24-
hour spots with a dusty shop and two
flickering lights. I stayed in the car while one
of his men went inside to get water and
snacks. Zakhelikhaya stepped out and lit a
cigarette. The night air made him look like a
ghost, carved from bone and rage. Smoke
curled around his face, hiding the storm in
his eyes. I rolled down the window, watching
him from behind the cracked glass.
Me: “Why did you come for me?”
I asked. He looked at me for a long moment,
then blew out the smoke.
Zakhe: “Because if anyone lays a hand on
you,”
he said, walking toward the window,
Zakhe: “I’ll burn this entire province to the
ground.”
My heart stuttered. Not from fear—never from
him. But from the way his voice didn’t shake,
the way he meant it. He wasn’t a man of
promises. He was a man of declarations. And
he had just declared war for me. When we
nally arrived, it was a house tucked between
two hills—more of a fortress, really. Black
gate, steel walls, no neighbours. The dogs
barked once and were silenced with a whistle.
Zakhe: “This is where you’ll sleep tonight,”
he said, unlocking the gate with a ngerprint
scanner.
Me: “Where will you sleep?”
He didn’t look at me as he said,
Zakhe: “Not far.”
Inside, the room was simple. Clean sheets,
candles on the windowsill, and a thick silence
hanging in the air. He placed my bag near the
bed and turned to leave. But I stopped him.
Me: “Zakhelikhaya?”
He paused, hand already on the doorknob.
Me: “I’m scared,”
I whispered. My voice cracked.
Me: “Of what’s coming. Of what I saw. Of…
not knowing who I am anymore.”
He walked back slowly. Bent down until we
were eye level.
Zake: “You are Tholakele Vilakazi,”
he said softly.
Zakhe: “A girl born from re. A girl who
watched her blood turn against her. You are
still standing. And as long as I’m alive, no
one will bury you.”

I didn’t sleep much that night. But for the rst

time in days, I felt safe.
Because even though monsters were hunting
me——the devil himself was guarding the
door. I sat on the edge of the bed long after
he left, my hands shaking as they gripped the
edge of the blanket. The silence in this house
was different. It wasn’t empty like my
father’s—it was alert. Like the walls had ears,
and the floorboards held breath. I pulled my
knees to my chest, resting my chin on them,
letting the flickering candlelight draw
shadows across the wall. My chest was
heavy. My back sore. My cheek bruised. But I
was alive. And he had come for me. A soft
knock at the door startled me.
I froze. Another knock—this one rmer.
Zakhe: “Tholakele?”
His voice. Low. Quiet.
Zakhe: “It’s me.”
I rushed to the door, unlocking it with
trembling ngers.
Zakhelikhaya stood there with a glass of warm
water, a slice of bread and peanut butter
balanced on a napkin, and a soft expression
that didn’t belong on a man who could shoot
without blinking.
Zakhe: “You need to eat,”
he said, stepping in slowly. I took it, not
realizing how starved I was until the rst bite
hit my tongue. He didn’t speak while I
chewed, didn’t ask me how I felt or what hurt.
He just stood there, arms crossed over his
chest, watching me like the entire world
might fall if I did.
Me: “I’m sorry,”
I said suddenly, wiping a tear from my cheek.
He tilted his head.
Zakhe: “For what?”
Me: “For all of it. For my dad. For being weak.
For not seeing the truth until it punched me
in the ribs.”
Zakhelikhaya sat beside me on the bed. Not
close—never invading. Just near enough that
I could feel his presence, solid and
anchoring.
Zakhe: “You are not weak,”
he said rmly.
Zakhe: “They tried to crush you. And you’re
still here.”
I looked down at my bruised arms.
Me: “He raised me. He held me as a baby…”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he reached for my
wrist slowly, gently, and brought it to his
chest.
Zakhe: “Then I’ll hold you now,”
he whispered. My breath caught. His heart
beat under my palm. Steady. Fierce. And for
one terrifying moment, I wanted nothing
more than to crawl into his arms and fall
apart.
Zakhe: “Get some rest,”
he said nally, rising to leave. Before he could
open the door, I spoke again.
Me: “Zakhelikhaya?”
He turned.
Me: “I was never scared of you,”
I said.
Me: “Even when people warned me. Even
when they whispered your name like a curse.”
He smiled—just a flicker of it.
Zakhe: “That’s because you saw me before I
ever knew I was being watched.”
Then he left. And I sat there in the dark, his
heartbeat still echoing in my palm. I don’t
know how long I sat there after he left. The
peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth,
and my thoughts stuck to my ribs. Every
memory of my father came rushing in—his
laugh, his rough hands, the smell of paraf n
on his overalls… and now, the look in his
eyes when he slapped me. The way his lips
curled when he said I wasn’t his daughter
anymore. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream.
But all I could do was breathe. Slowly.
Quietly. Outside, the township had settled into
its usual night rhythm—distant dogs barking,
lovers whispering behind car windows, tyres
screeching at the corner, the occasional burst
of laughter from the tavern down the road.
Then—a second knock. Not gentle this time.
Not Zakhelikhaya. My heart jumped. I stood,
alert, moving like I wasn’t limping. Another
knock—this time on the gate, not the door.
Voice: “Tholakele!”
a woman's voice called.
Voice: “Ngicela ukukhuluma nawe!”
I froze. It wasn’t Gogo Deli. I peeked through
the curtain and saw her—Bawi, standing
outside the gate, barefoot, crying. Her weave
was half undone, her lips swollen, one shoe
in her hand.
Bawi: “Thola, please. I know you’re in there!”
I hesitated… and then opened the window
just enough to speak.
Me: “Bawi?”
Her voice cracked.
Bawi: “They came for me after they couldn’t
nd you. Your father’s people. They think I
knew where you were. I swear I didn’t say
anything—Thola, they hurt me. Bad.”
A shadow moved behind her. I blinked, but it
was gone. I whispered,
Me: “Come around the back. Knock once.”
She nodded fast, then disappeared from view.
I unlocked the kitchen door just as she
arrived. She stumbled in, eyes red, mascara
streaking down her cheeks. She dropped her
one shoe and threw her arms around me.
Bawi: “I’m sorry,”
she sobbed.
Bawi: “I shouldn’t have let them near you. I
didn’t know they’d hurt you like that.”
I held her tight, ghting my own tears.
Me: “Bawi…”
I whispered.
Me: “You were my sister.”
She pulled back and looked at me with
bloodshot eyes.
Bawi: “Still am.”
But the silence that followed felt too loud.
Like we both knew this wouldn’t be a clean
reunion. Suddenly, loud knocking on the front
gate again. Both of us jumped. This time,
three sharp bangs.
No voice.
No name.
We stared at each other, breathing hard. Then
the voice came—deep, calm, terrifying.
Voice: “Ngicela ungibizele uTholakele.”
I didn’t recognise it. But I felt the chill in my
bones. Whoever was out there… Wasn’t here
to talk.
Voice: “Ngicela ungibizele uTholakele.”
The voice at the gate was low. Measured. Like
someone who had all the time in the world…
and had done this before. I didn’t move.
Neither did Bawi. She looked at me,
trembling. Bawi: “That’s… that’s not your
dad.”
Me: “No,”
I whispered.
Me: “That’s worse.”
I reached under the sink and grabbed the old
mop handle. Not a gun. Not a knife. But
something. Bawi reached for the kettle,
holding it like a weapon. The knock came
again—this time softer.
Voice: “Ngiyabona nina nikhona endlini. Open
the gate before I open it for you.”
We both knew what that meant. Whoever was
out there wasn’t alone. I inched toward the
curtain, lifted it slowly. Two shadows. One at
the gate. Another leaning against the wall
near the tree, arms folded. Bawi whispered,
Bawi: “Do you have your phone?”
I nodded.
Me: “In my room.”
She took a step back.
Bawi: “Run.”
Me: “What?”
Bawi: “Run to your room, lock the door. I’ll
distract—”
Me: “No.”
I grabbed her arm.
Me: “We both go.”
Before we could move, the gate creaked. They
were opening it. We ran. Down the narrow
passage. Into my bedroom. I slammed the
door and twisted the key just as I heard
footsteps on the veranda.
Him: “Tholaaaaa…”
the man outside sang.
A horrible, mocking tone. I grabbed my
phone, dialled—Zakhelikhaya. Please answer.
Please—
Zakhe: “Yebo?”
His voice was calm.
Me: “Zakh… someone’s here. Two men. At
Gogo’s house.”
Silence. Then:
Zakhe: “Stay in the room. Don’t open for
anyone.”
I heard something else in his voice. A
coldness. A shift.
Zakhe: “I’m coming.”
Then the line cut. Outside, the door rattled. A
man’s laugh followed.
Man1: “They locked the bedroom, mfethu,”
one of them said.
Man2: “Should we knock again?”
Man1: “No,” the singing voice replied. “We
burn it down. Then they’ll come running.”
Bawi gasped beside me. And just as we
thought the nightmare had arrived— A
gunshot. Then another.
BOOM!
One of the men screamed.
Zakhe: “Tholakele! Vala amehlo!”
It was him. Zakhelikhaya. Gun re lit up the
yard like lightning. Bawi covered her ears,
screaming. I held her and whispered,
Me: “Don’t look. Don’t move.”
Then… silence. Nothing but the wind. A
knock. Soft this time. At the bedroom door.
Zakhe: “Thola,”
Zakhelikhaya said.
Zakhe: “It’s me.”
I hesitated, heart thumping. Then turned the
key, opened the door slowly. There he
stood—gun in one hand, blood on his shirt,
jaw clenched.
Zakhe: “They won’t bother you again,”
he said.
Zakhe: “Ngiyethembisa.”
Then he pulled me into his chest, still warm
from the ght, his voice shaking.
Zakhe: “You’re mine now. No one touches
what’s mine.”
And for the rst time… I believed him.

CHAPTER 16

The morning light slipped through the

cracked blinds, painting thin stripes across
the floor. I lay tangled in the sheets, heart still
pounding from the night’s chaos.
Zakhelikhaya was gone—off hunting or
hiding or somewhere only he could survive. I
didn’t ask where. Gogo Deli sat cross-legged
on the floor, murmuring something under her
breath.
Gogo: “Unkulunkulu ulapha,”
she said softly.
(God is here.)
I didn’t answer. My throat was dry, my mind
numb. I wrapped my arms around my knees
and watched the dust dance in the sunlight,
thinking about prayers I never said aloud. I
wanted to pray for courage. For protection.
For peace. But the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, I prayed in silence. Hoping the
universe heard the quiet screams. The house
was unlike any place I’d ever known. No
neighbours for miles, just wild grass and
winding roads. A fortress, maybe—but also a
prison. No one knocked here. No one came
without warning. Yet the walls whispered
secrets. The floors creaked like old bones.
And in the quiet moments, I felt eyes on
me—watching, waiting. That afternoon, I
found a small wooden cross on the
windowsill. Hand-carved, simple. I didn’t
know who put it there. Gogo noticed my gaze.
Gogo: “It’s for protection,”
she said.
Gogo: “Ancestors watch over those who
listen.”
I held the cross, ngers tracing the grain. It
was the rst tangible thing that felt like hope.
Later, as the sun dipped low, Zakhelikhaya
returned. His clothes were dirt-stained, cuts
on his hands. But his eyes found mine,
steady and erce.
Zakhe: “Did you pray?”
he asked quietly. I looked down, ashamed.
Me: “I tried. But I couldn’t nd the words.”
He came closer, sitting beside me.
Zakhe: “Sometimes, silence is the loudest
prayer.”
I nodded. In that moment, I believed it. As
night fell, I whispered my own prayer. Not for
safety, or strength, or even love. But for
tomorrow. For the chance to survive one
more day in a world that felt like re. I
couldn’t sleep that night. The house was too
quiet. Not even the wind dared whistle. Just
silence, thick and suffocating, like it was
holding its breath. Zakhelikhaya lay on the
mattress, his back to me, his breathing deep
but not peaceful. I watched the rise and fall of
his chest and wondered what haunted his
dreams. What ghosts he’d invited into his
heart. He stirred.
Zakhe: “You still awake?”
he mumbled, voice rough like gravel. I
stayed quiet for a second too long.
Me: “Yeah.”
Zakhe: “You scared?”
I paused again.
Me: “Yes.”
He turned over to face me, eyes half-lidded
but locked on mine.
Zakhe: “Good. You should be.”
A chill ran down my spine.
Zakhe: “But not of me,”
he added. I swallowed hard.
Me: “Then of what?”
He didn’t answer. Just pulled the blanket up
to my shoulder and whispered,
Zakhe: “Sleep, Thola. The war waits for
morning.”
By sunrise, I sat outside Gogo Deli’s kitchen,
watching the pot of porridge simmer over the
re. She moved like someone who had seen
lifetimes. Stirring gently. Humming softly.
There was something holy about her.
Something both ancient and erce.
Gogo: “I heard your prayers last night,”
she said without looking up. I blinked.
Me: “I didn’t say anything.”
Gogo: “You don’t have to say them for them
to be heard.”
She scooped some porridge into a tin plate
and handed it to me. I hadn’t realized I was
starving until the scent hit my nose.
Me: “What happens next?”
I asked. She sat beside me, her eyes xed
on the sunrise.
Gogo: “Next,”
she said,
Gogo: “is when things start to bleed.”

Later that day, a black BMW pulled up at the

far end of the eld.
Zakhelikhaya stood at the window, jaw
clenched.
Zakhe: “Stay inside.”
I froze.
Me: “Who is it?”
Zakhe: “The ones who pretend to run this
city,”
he muttered.
Zakhe: “But they don’t know it belongs to re
now.”
I didn’t ask more. He grabbed his gun from
under the bed and left without another word. I
sat at the edge of the mattress, cross in my
hand, whispering one nal, desperate prayer:
“Let him come back to me whole.”
Let me still be here when he does.
I sat there for what felt like hours after
Zakhelikhaya left. My ngers clutched the soft
hem of the blanket he wrapped me in last
night. I hadn’t even realized how much I
needed that — someone tucking me in.
Someone telling me to sleep, even when the
world outside was burning. The old clock in
Gogo Deli’s lounge ticked loud. The kettle
screeched softly on the stove. But my mind
was loudest. I kept thinking about my father.
Not the man who beat me. Not the shadow
with the belt. But the man who once wiped
mango juice off my cheeks with his sleeve,
who lifted me onto his shoulders when I
couldn’t reach the sugarcane. That man hadn’t
existed for years. And yet... part of me prayed
he would be there when I went back. Part of
me still needed him to change. Maybe that’s
what unspoken prayers really were — not
words, not wishes, but hope clinging to dying
things. When the door nally creaked open,
my body tensed. Zakhelikhaya stepped in
slowly, wiping blood off his knuckles with a
cloth that was once white. He didn’t look at
me at rst. Just stood by the door, breathing
hard. His shirt was torn at the collar. There
was a long scratch on his cheek, fresh and
raw.
Me: “Are you hurt?”
I asked softly. He looked up, and in his eyes, I
saw rage… and something else. Guilt,
maybe.
Zakhe: “No,”
 he replied. Then walked over, sank onto the
floor beside me, and dropped the bloodied
cloth into the bin.
Zakhe: “They touched the gate,”
he said.
Zakhe: “One of them threw a stone over.”
Me: “Who?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at the candle
flickering on the table like it held the whole
truth.
Zakhe: “I warned them. I told them what
would happen if they came near you again.”
My heart sank.
Me: “What did you do, Zakhe?”
He looked at me, eyes wild with something
that wasn’t just violence. It was love —
twisted and broken, but there.
Zakhe: “I wrote your name in blood. They
need to know whose you are now.”
Tears stung my eyes.
Me: “I never asked you to kill for me.”
He leaned closer.
Zakhe: “You didn’t have to. I would do it
again.”
I looked away, because part of me… part of
me didn’t hate hearing that. That night, I
couldn’t pray. Not out loud. Not in whispers.
But I curled into his side, my hand resting
just above the wound on his ribs, and I
thought of God anyway. I thought of re. I
thought of fate. And I let my silence speak for
me.

CHAPTER 17

The rain came without warning.

It danced on the tin roof of Gogo Deli’s house
like old spirits knocking, impatient and
uninvited. The smell of wet earth crept into
the walls, and in the corner of the room,
Gogo sat in her usual chair, wrapped in her
faded umbhaco, eyes half-closed, lips moving
in a silent conversation with the dead.
Zakhelikhaya hadn’t returned since last night.
And Gogo… she was restless.
"Come sit, ntombi," she said, not even
looking at me. "Your spirit is pacing."
I hesitated. Her voice was gentle but carved
out of something old. Something that
remembered things before they even
happened.
I sat down on the small mat in front of her.
“You dreamt of water again,” she said.
My heart skipped.
I had. A dark ocean, rising and swallowing
me whole, while voices screamed my name
beneath the surface.
"How—"
She placed a cold hand on my head,
silencing me.
“I felt it in my bones. The ancestors are
warning you.”
My throat tightened. “About Zakhelikhaya?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for
the small, tattered cloth bag next to her chair
and pulled out bones — real ones, yellowed
and smooth from time.
She whispered to them like they were
children.
Then threw them onto the woven mat.
They clattered into place, forming a shape I
couldn’t understand — but Gogo could.
She leaned forward.
“Blood walks with you,” she said. “It’s behind
you. But also ahead.”
“I don’t understand—”
“You will.” Her eyes flicked up to mine.
“Someone close to you will betray you. And
someone you hate… will save your life.”
I blinked, heart racing. “Who?”
But Gogo was already picking up the bones,
mumbling under her breath.
"Your father is not your only enemy."
My spine froze.
"Then who is?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper, almost
swallowed by the thunder that cracked
outside.
“Follow the bloodline, Tholakele. The truth is
older than you.”
Later that night, while I stood by the kitchen
window watching lightning split the sky, I saw
a shadow at the gate.
Tall. Still. Familiar.
Zakhelikhaya.
But he wasn’t alone.
Behind him… a woman. Dripping in red.
My breath caught.
And just before he opened the gate, he
looked up at the house — and didn’t smile.
Something had changed.

I sat still long after Gogo had gone quiet.

The air inside the house grew heavy, like
something unseen had entered with the
storm. Gogo closed her eyes and started
humming — a low, haunting melody that
seemed to stir something ancient in the
room. I didn’t know the words, but the tune
made the hairs on my arms stand.
“Ubona le nyoka?” she said suddenly.
A snake?
I frowned. “Cha, Gogo. I don’t see any—”
She opened her eyes, sharp now, full of
knowing. “Not with your eyes. With your
spirit.”
I didn’t respond. My mouth had gone dry.
She pointed to the bones again, this time
isolating one, long and curved like a question
mark. “This one,” she said, voice barely above
the crackle of the re. “It means betrayal. The
snake is someone you share breath with.”
My heart sank.
Not Zakhelikhaya…
No. I wouldn’t let my mind go there.
“Gogo, I don’t want to know,” I whispered.
She didn’t argue.
“Truth doesn’t need permission to exist,
mntanami. It reveals itself when you need it
most.”
There was silence between us, only broken
by thunder rumbling overhead.
Then her voice turned softer. “Zakhelikhaya...
the blood on his hands is not nished
dripping. And the blood that calls to him... it
isn't yours yet.”
I looked at her, shaken.
"What do you mean, yet?"
She didn’t answer me.

Later, Gogo walked me to the small rondavel I

slept in when I stayed over. The night was
thick, storm clouds choking the stars. As she
opened the door, she whispered something
behind me — a prayer maybe, or a warning. I
didn’t turn to ask.
Inside, I lit the candle by the bed, then sat
down slowly.
My phone buzzed.
Zakhelikhaya: “Don’t go outside tonight. Don’t
even look out the window.”
A chill slid down my back. I started to type
back when a soft knock landed on the
wooden door. Not the front one. The side.
Right by the trees. Three knocks. Slow.
Deliberate. I froze. Another message came
through.
Zakhelikhaya: “They know where you sleep
now.”

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay with my eyes

wide open, the candle burned to its last
breath, leaving behind a small, de ant flame.
Every creak in the wind outside felt like
someone breathing against the walls. Every
movement of the trees scraped against my
fear. I kept replaying Gogo’s words:
“The blood that calls to him... it isn’t yours
yet.”
What the hell did that mean?
Suddenly, I heard it again — those three slow
knocks. Only this time, they weren’t at the
side door. They were on the window. I sat up
so fast I nearly fell off the bed. Silence. Then
a whisper through the crack between the
wood and frame.
Zakhe: “S’thandwa... ungavuli. They want your
skin... not your soul.”
Zakhelikhaya. His voice — low, urgent, full of
something raw I couldn’t place. I rushed to
the window but didn’t open it. Instead, I
pressed my ear close.
Zakhe: “You’re not safe anymore, Thola. They
know whose heart you hold.”
Me: “Who are they?”
I whispered. No answer. The air outside was
cold, and I could hear his footsteps move
away — or at least I hoped it was him. I didn’t
sleep. I didn’t blink. I waited. Until dawn. By
the time morning broke, Gogo was already
outside. She sat on a three-legged stool, a
red cloth over her knees, grinding imbola into
a paste.
Gogo: “You heard them, didn’t you?” she said
without turning. I nodded.
Gogo: “I warned you not to stare too long,
mntanami. You danced too close to his re.”
Me: “I didn’t think it was this serious…”
She turned sharply.
Gogo: “You thought love was soft? That it
won’t cost you bones and blood?”
I swallowed hard, my chest aching with a fear
I didn’t know I could carry. Gogo dipped her
ngers into the red paste and smeared a thick
line across my forehead.
Gogo: “From now on, you stay alert. You
speak less. Watch more. There’s a girl who
danced with re once... and she never walked
again.”

Later that day, I got one more message from

Zakhelikhaya:
Zakhelikhaya: “If you see Bawi… don’t trust
her. Not even if she cries. Especially if she
cries.”
The blood on the doorstep wasn’t just a
warning. It was a beginning. And Gogo’s
bones? They were screaming now.

CHAPTER 18

The day felt like a bruise beneath my skin. I

moved differently now — slower, watchful,
like I knew the world was starting to close in.
Even my breath felt borrowed. There was
something ancient in the air, something Gogo
Deli wouldn’t say but always seemed to hear. I
walked to the gate just before sunset to
collect the washing from the line. And there it
was.
Written in red.
Across the inside of our gate, smeared in
thick, dripping paint.
THOLAKELE VILAKAZI.
Not just my name. My entire name. I froze.
The letters were clean. Bold. Angry. It wasn’t
the graf ti of some drunk boy. It was a
message. A knowing. I dropped the basket
and ran back inside, screaming,
Me: “GOGO!”
She came hobbling from the back, her bones
already aching with what I had seen. She
didn’t ask. She didn’t need to. She just
whispered,
Gogo: “He knows your name now.”
Later that night, while Gogo crushed charcoal
to hide the writing, my phone buzzed.
Private Number.
I should’ve ignored it. But I answered. Voice,
calm. Familiar. Dangerous.
Zakhe: “Your father thinks you’re his to
protect. But I wrote your name, Tholakele.
Which means you’re already mine.”
I stood there frozen.
Me: “Zakhe…?”
But he hung up. My chest trembled. I stared
at my phone like it could bleed. Because it
wasn’t Zakhelikhaya’s voice. It was someone
else. Someone who knew him. Someone who
hated him. Someone who wanted me
because of him. I didn’t sleep that night
again. Instead, I sat with Gogo in the dark as
she lit a single white candle and whispered
into the flame.
Gogo: “Once your name is spoken in the
mouth of the wrong man, it sticks to death.”
I asked her,
Me: “Do you think he’ll come for me?”
She shook her head slowly.
Gogo: “No, mntanami. He’s already here.”
Outside, a car revved three times. Loud.
Aggressive. It was the Avanza boys. And on
the back windshield, in red paint again…
“This isn’t about your father anymore. It’s
about you.”
I didn’t leave the house for two days. Not
even to walk to the garage. Every time I
looked at the gate, I saw my name burned
into the metal — even though Gogo had
scrubbed the red off with ash and soap. It
was still there. In my mind. In my chest.
Tholakele Vilakazi.
Whoever had said it — whispered it into the
phone — knew who I was.
Not the girl who sells perfumes at the taxi
rank. Not the girl who greets elders and
minds her business. But the real me. The
daughter of a man who’d spilled blood in too
many places. Gogo didn’t speak much. She
just kept burning impepho. Every morning.
Every night.
Gogo: “Uvalwe,”
she whispered.
Gogo: “Your name is open in the spirit world
now. We must close it.”
I didn’t know what that meant… until I started
dreaming. And in those dreams, someone
stood in the corner of my room — always
facing the wall, always breathing loudly, like
he wanted me to know he was there. He
never spoke. He never moved. But he wore a
hoodie soaked in blood.
I woke up screaming. My brother, Sanele, ran
into the room with a stick. Gogo was right
behind him with her prayer cloth over her
shoulders.
Me: “I saw him!”
I cried.
Me: “In the dream. I saw the man!”
Sanele: “Who?”
Sanele asked.
Sanele: “Zakhelikhaya?”
I shook my head violently.
Me: “Not Zakhe. This one... he's colder. He’s
not here for love.”
That was when Gogo took me by the chin,
forced me to look into her eyes and said:
Gogo: “Sometimes, when a man wants power,
he starts by owning your name. But when he
wants your soul…
He learns your silence.”

That evening, a parcel was delivered to our

house. There was no courier, no knock. Just
a brown box, left on our doorstep like a
warning. Inside: A black hoodie. A cassette
tape. And a Polaroid photo of me sleeping.
We played the tape. It was grainy. But the
voice was clear.
“Every night I watch you, Tholakele.
You left the window open once.
You talk in your sleep.
You said his name.
But soon, you’ll only say mine.”

The photo made my body lock. Me… in my

sleep. My scarf crooked, mouth slightly open,
like how I always slept when I was too tired to
pretend I wasn’t scared. It wasn’t the image
that chilled me. It was the angle.
That picture was taken from inside my room.
Gogo froze when she saw it. Then she got up
and walked to the door, slammed it shut,
locked it three times, and pulled the curtain.
She didn’t speak. Not until she poured coarse
salt across every doorway.
Gogo: "Someone crossed the line,”
she muttered, placing a candle by the
window.
Gogo: “They walked through your name and
into your soul."

I didn’t sleep that night. Neither did Gogo. I

watched her rock back and forth in prayer by
the re, beads in her hand, lips trembling.
She was scared too—but she was trying not
to let me see it.
Gogo: “Amadlozi akho ayaqala ukukhuluma,”
she said softly.
Gogo: “They’re beginning to speak. Don’t
ignore them, Tholakele.”
I didn’t know what to believe. All I knew was:
someone had said my name with too much
intention.
Like it was a key.
Like it was a spell.

At exactly 03:00, I heard the gate creak. Then

a whisper. Soft. Deep. Male.
Voice: “You left the window closed tonight…”
I froze. My heart tried to climb out of my
chest. Gogo looked at me.
Gogo: “Ungaphefumuli,”
she said.
Gogo: “Don’t breathe. Don’t answer. Don’t let
fear open your mouth.”
She began chanting louder. I held my knees.
I bit my tongue. Because that voice… it
wasn’t just a stranger’s. It was familiar. And
that’s when it hit me. It wasn’t the rst time I’d
heard that voice. Not in real life. But in my
dreams… years ago. Back when I was still a
child. Back when Gogo rst started locking
the windows and burning impepho every
Friday.
Me: "Why didn’t you ever tell me, Gogo?”
My voice cracked.
Gogo: “Why didn’t you ever tell me something
followed us when we left eMlazi?”
She turned to me slowly. Tears in her eyes.
And she said:
Gogo: “Because it didn’t follow us.
It waited. And now that you’ve said his name
in your heart…
He knows yours too.”

CHAPTER 19

The problem with danger is that it never looks

like what your mother warned you about. It
doesn’t always have blood on its hands.
Sometimes, it smells like oud and leather.
Drives a black BMW with bullet holes hidden
under fresh paint. Says your name like it’s the
only word God got right. And sometimes…
Danger looks like Zakhelikhaya Zulu leaning
against your grandmother’s kitchen door, his
head tilted, eyes eating your soul in silence.
He didn’t greet. He didn’t smile. He just
looked at me. And that was enough to make
my knees whisper secrets to the floor.
I knew I shouldn’t have let him in.
But I also knew he would’ve come in anyway.
Zakhe didn’t knock — he entered. Into
homes. Into hearts. Into wars you didn’t know
you were ghting.
Zakhe: “You’re bleeding,”
 he said. I blinked. Looked down. My hand…
had sliced against broken glass from the
window I’d closed too fast last night.
Zakhe: “You always so clumsy around men?”
he asked, walking toward me.
Me: “Only the ones that walk like sin,” I
replied. He smiled. But there was nothing
sweet about it. He took my hand. Gently.
Firmly. And then he did something that
shocked me. He kissed it. Right over the
blood.
Zakhe: “You want to be saved,”
he whispered,
Zakhe: “but you don’t know from what yet.”
My breath hitched. Because he wasn’t wrong.
Me: “You think you know me?”
I asked.
Zakhe: “I own the ground you walk on.”
Me: “That’s cute. Possession dressed up as
protection.”
Zakhe: “No, ntombazane,”
he said, stepping closer.
Zakhe: “Protection is possession. In this life,
if you want to live… you belong to someone.
And I’ve already killed for you. So guess what
that makes you?”
I should’ve pulled away. I didn’t. He kissed
me.
Rough.
Like punishment.
Like promise.
Like war and worship tangled into one
breathless sin. I didn’t recognize the sound
that left my throat. But it was real.
Raw.
Ragged.
And when he pulled back, he didn’t ask for
permission. He didn’t need to.
Zakhe: “Next time,”
he said darkly,
Zakhe: “don’t flirt with bullets if you’re not
ready to die.”
And just like that, he was gone. Leaving
blood on my lips, re in my chest, and the
terrifying realization:
I wasn’t scared of Zakhelikhaya Zulu. I was
scared of how safe danger felt when it came
in his mouth. I didn’t know how long I stood
there, heart thudding like sts against a
locked door. The echo of his presence still
clung to the air like cigarette smoke. I wiped
my lips with trembling ngers. But it was too
late. The damage had been done. His taste
was on my tongue. His voice in my ear. And
his scent… on my skin. I pressed my back
against the kitchen wall and sank slowly to
the floor. This wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust.
This was something darker. Something more
dangerous.
Something that crawled under your skin and
made a home in the parts of you you didn’t
show anyone. Later that night, I sat on my
bed staring at the messages on my phone.
Not a single one from him. But I didn’t expect
him to say anything. Zakhe wasn’t the kind of
man who talked.
He showed up.
He took.
He destroyed.
And maybe, just maybe… he rebuilt too. But
only if he felt like it. I picked up my hoodie,
the one he once touched at the shisanyama.
It still smelled like trouble and vanilla and
gunpowder. That’s when a message came
through.
Unknown Number:
“Don’t let anyone else touch that mouth. It’s
mine now.”
I stared at the screen. Then laughed. A shaky,
shocked,
Me: “what the hell is happening to me?”
laugh. Because the worst part?
I liked it. The next morning, Gogo caught me
staring at myself in the mirror with smudged
lips and tired eyes.
Gogo: “Uyathandwa nguSathane, wena,”
she mumbled. I blinked.
Me: “What?”
Gogo: “You’re being loved by the Devil. And
the problem is — you think it’s romance.”
I wanted to deny it. Say she was being
dramatic. But how do you lie to a woman
whose bones dream at night?
Later that day…
I was walking toward the local spaza shop
when I saw Nkosi standing outside the car
wash. He looked nervous. He saw me and
immediately stomped over.
Nkosi: “Thola, come here. Now.”
I rolled my eyes.
Me: “I’m not your girlfriend, Bawi.”
Nkosi: “You’re someone’s target,”
he snapped.
Nkosi: “You think Zakhe doesn’t have
enemies? You think they won’t use you?”
I froze. He looked around. Dropped his voice.
Nkosi: “Thola… they’re watching you. The
blood that follows him is now staining you.
And if you keep dancing with re…”
He trailed off.
Nkosi: “…don’t be surprised when your
name ends up on a bullet.”

I walked away from Bawi with my heart

caught in my throat. Because I didn’t want to
be right. But I knew… I was already in too
deep. And the scariest part wasn’t that
Zakhelikhaya Zulu was dangerous. It was that
his danger tasted better than any safety I’d
ever known. That night, I dreamt of him
again.
But it wasn’t the usual kind. There were no
soft touches. No candlelight kisses. Only
shadows, and a voice that whispered my
name like a warning.
“Tholakele…”
I turned in the dream, but I couldn’t nd him.
The only thing I saw was blood dripping from
the ceiling. I woke up breathless, clutching
my chest like something had just been ripped
out of it. The next day, the township buzzed.
People were whispering again. Another boy
was found dead. Shot twice in the chest.
Execution-style. No one said Zakhelikhaya’s
name. But everyone thought it. And the worst
part? I saw the way people looked at me now.
Like maybe I was his. Like maybe I belonged
to the monster. And maybe I did. Because
when I saw his car parked outside the BP
garage that night, I didn’t run. I walked to
him. Heart pounding. Legs shaking. But I
walked to him. And when I opened the door
and slipped into the passenger seat, he didn’t
say a word. He just looked at me. His eyes
dark and unreadable. His jaw clenched like he
was trying to hold back something
dangerous.
Zakhe: “You came,”
he said nally. I swallowed.
Me: “I shouldn’t have.”
He nodded slowly. Then reached over and
touched my thigh, gently, possessively.
Zakhe: “But you did.”
I looked at him.
Me: “What are we doing, Zakhe?”
He leaned closer.
Zakhe: “Falling.”
We drove in silence. He didn’t take me to
some fancy place. He drove us to the middle
of nowhere — an abandoned lot behind an
old scrapyard where his men sometimes met.
It should’ve scared me. But it didn’t. He got
out and walked around the car, opening my
door like a gentleman from hell. When I
stepped out, the wind hit me — sharp and
cold. He pulled me close. Held my face in his
hands.
Zakhe: “I need you to understand something,
Tholakele. I’ve burned for a lot of things in my
life… power, revenge, blood.”
He looked down at me, his voice like gravel
and smoke.
Zakhe: “But now I burn for you.”
And then he kissed me again.
Rougher.
Deeper.
Like he was trying to brand his name into my
bones. I let him. Because maybe I wanted to
feel that re too. Maybe I needed it. By the
time we pulled back, my breath was gone. My
lips swollen. My mind a blur.
Zakhe: “You're mine now,”
he said, brushing a thumb across my cheek.
I didn’t correct him. Didn’t remind him I wasn’t
property. Because in that moment — I didn’t
want to be free.
Later…
When I got back home, Gogo was waiting at
the door. She looked at me. Saw the kiss
written across my face. And shook her head.
Gogo: “A girl who dances with re must be
ready to smell like smoke.”
I didn’t say anything. Because the scent of
him was still clinging to me. And deep down?
I didn’t want it to fade.

CHAPTER 20
The wind changed. Gogo always said when
ancestors speak, the wind carries their
warnings. That night, it howled through the
Vilakazi home like something was being
ripped away. Something sacred. Something
nal. My father was pacing. He’d been pacing
all day, phone in hand, gun on the table,
anger in his jaw. And I could feel it — the
fear underneath all that rage. He had made
calls.
To cops. To cousins. To men with no
uniforms and loyalty built from favours and
fear. But Zakhelikhaya Zulu’s name carried
more weight than threats.
Baba: “You think that boy loves you,
Tholakele?”
he barked, slamming his hand against the
table.
Baba: “He loves the power he has over you.
Just like he loves the power he has over
everyone else. But I’ll nish it. I’ll end him.”
I flinched. He had never spoken like that
before. Not even when he was angry. This
was different. This was war. I crept into
Gogo’s room later, my chest heavy, my
stomach in knots. She was burning impepho.
Again.
Me: “He won’t listen,”
I whispered. Gogo didn’t look up.
Gogo: “He never has.”
Me: “Something bad is coming.”
She nodded.
Gogo: “Yes. But not for who you think.”

Somewhere in Umlazi…
Zakhelikhaya sat in silence, staring at the
bullet on the table. Nkosi stood beside him,
tense, shaking.
Nkosi: “We just found out. Vilakazi’s got two
men watching your house. He’s ready.”
Zakhe didn’t flinch. He simply picked up the
bullet and carved something on it with the tip
of a knife. A name. VILAKAZI
Zakhe: “I warned him,”
Zakhe said softly.
Zakhe: “Now he dies.”
That night was colder than most. The
township lights flickered like the electricity
could sense what was coming. A black
Mercedes drove down a road too quiet for
comfort. It stopped two streets from the
Vilakazi home. No music. No movement. Just
men stepping out one by one.
Armed.
Ready.
Zakhelikhaya stayed in the driver’s seat,
watching, unmoving. Inside the house, my
father was cleaning his gun again, humming
a song from his youth. He didn’t see the
shadows moving outside. Didn’t hear the gate
creak open. Didn’t notice the silence… until
the door opened.
Zakhe: “Vilakazi.”
The voice echoed in the hallway like death’s
knock.He turned around— Too slow. Three
shots red. One missed.
Two didn’t. Blood sprayed across the family
photo wall. He fell with his mouth open, a
curse still stuck in his throat. I woke up
screaming. I didn’t know why — but my chest
felt hollow. Like someone had just yanked a
string that connected me to the earth.
Moments later, there was a knock. Gogo
opened the door. A boy stood there,
trembling.
Boy: “They killed your father.”
I remember nothing after that. Just gogo
grabbing her sangoma cloth, whispering
prayers like she was trying to hold the world
together. Me? I stood frozen. Because part of
me already knew. I had seen it coming. I just
never imagined it would hurt this much. Back
at the scene, someone spray-painted words
on the gate. Big, bloody red.
“You touch re. You burn.”
– Zakhelikhaya Zulu
The air felt thick and heavy. After the shots,
the world outside the Vilakazi home seemed
to hold its breath. Inside, my mother
collapsed onto the floor, screaming prayers
no one could understand, tears soaking the
dirt beneath her knees. I sat frozen, unable to
move, unable to cry. The blood on the wall
glistened in the dim light like a brutal tattoo
marking our end. Gogo’s voice cut through
the chaos.
Gogo: “Come, ntombi.”
She grabbed my arm, pulling me from the
wreckage of my family. Outside, the night was
alive with sirens and shouting. Men from
both sides were yelling, guns raised,
promises of revenge spilling like rain. But all I
heard was the pounding of my own heart —
a wild drum of anger and despair. I wanted to
scream at Zakhelikhaya. Wanted to blame him
for dragging me into a war I didn’t ask for. But
I knew. He had warned my father. And now—
Now my father was dead. The next morning,
the township was different. Whispers followed
me like shadows. Some eyes were lled with
pity. Others with fear. And some… with
something darker. Respect? Or fear of what
was to come? My phone buzzed. A message.
Zakhelikhaya:
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want this for you. But the
re has started. You must be ready.”

I stared at the screen, tears blurring the

words. I wanted to hate him. But all I could
feel was the burning. Gogo took my hand.
Gogo: “Blood demands blood, Tholakele. But
remember— re can also cleanse.”
I looked at her, searching for hope. And for
the rst time, I saw a flicker. The gate still
bore Zakhelikhaya’s warning in red paint.
But now it was different. More than a threat. It
was a promise. Days passed like broken glass
beneath my feet — sharp, relentless,
impossible to ignore. My father’s chair sat
empty at the kitchen table, a silent reminder
of the war that had come to our doorstep. My
mother buried herself in tears and silence,
and I wandered through the house like a
ghost, numb to everything but the ache in my
chest. Gogo kept close, whispering prayers
and burning incense, but even her magic felt
powerless against the storm raging inside
me. One evening, as the sun dipped low and
the shadows stretched long, I found myself
standing at the gate — the same gate where
blood and rage had been sprayed days
before. The words still stared back at me:
“You touch re. You burn.”
I ran my ngers over the jagged paint,
imagining the flames licking at my skin.
Because that’s what it felt like — my life was
burning. And there was no way out.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed again. A
message from an unknown number:
“Your father’s death is only the beginning.
The throne belongs to those who survive the
re.”
My hands shook. I looked around, heart
racing. Who was watching? Who was waiting?
That night, I found Zakhelikhaya sitting by the
re pit outside Gogo’s house, smoke curling
around him like a cloak. His eyes were darker
than ever. I approached cautiously. He didn’t
speak.Instead, he handed me a folded piece
of paper.
I opened it. Inside was a map — marked with
names, places, and a single word scrawled in
red ink:
“Enemies.”
He nally spoke, voice low and rough:
Zakhe: “They want to nish what they started.
They want to make sure no Vilakazi blood is
left to ght back.”
I swallowed hard.
Me: “And us?”
His gaze met mine, erce and unyielding.
Zakhe: “We burn together. Or we burn alone.”
CHAPTER 21:
Zakhe’s POV

Blood is never just blood. It carries stories—

of violence, of fear, of promises kept in the
dark. Tonight, I kneel by the gate of the
Vilakazi house, the red paint scarring its metal
like a challenge. I’ve come back to wipe it
away, but the warning remains: “You touch
re. You burn.” I trace my thumb over the sill,
feeling the rough edges of dried pigment.
Beneath it, the smeared ngerprints of fear—
Tholakele’s trembling hands. My blood, my
war, but her name lost in the chaos. I pull a
damp rag from my pocket and begin to scrub.
Each motion is deliberate, almost ritualistic—
buf ng out the message I left there days ago.
In its place, I carve something new, ghost-
white beneath the moonlight: Z.Z. The rag
grows slick with pigment and grit. My ngers
smell of iron and resolve. I press harder, until
the paint yields, revealing cold steel. I stand
and stretch muscles knotted from too many
ghts. My eyes scan the darkness. The street
is empty—too quiet after the storm. But I
know better. Eyes watch. Whispered plans
coil in hidden corners. I return to the re pit
where the others are waiting—ghosts of this
war I’ve waged. Spoko passes me a bottle of
water. Luthando hands me a fresh rag. They
understand that cleaning the blood doesn’t
erase it. It merely hides it until the next spill. I
dip the rag again, wiping thicker strokes
across the gate. My hands are steady.
Controlled. Because this blood—Tholakele’s
father’s blood—was never mine to leave. It
belonged to a debt I paid in bullets and
promises. I nish, step back. The gate stands
bare, but I know the truth: the blood seeps
into metal, into wood, even into the earth. It
will always nd its way back. I zip up my
jacket and head toward the car. I’ve kept my
promise. I cleaned the blood. I reclaimed her
name. But the war doesn’t end with a rag and
a gate. It moves inside us—through scars
and whispers and the heavy quiet before
dawn. As I slip into the driver’s seat, I send a
message:
Tholakele: “Gate’s clear. I’m here.”
My thumb hovers over send. I hesitate—
imagining her face when she reads it. Relief?
Resentment? Something erce and
unde nable in those deep brown eyes. I
press send.
The engine purrs to life. And as the gate
clicks shut behind me, I know: cleaning blood
is easy. Forgetting it… that’s the ght. The
smell of bleach lingers on my hands. I
shouldn’t be the one doing this. Not after
what I did. But she saw it. She saw me. Not
the Zakhelikhaya who spins cars. Not the one
who owns half of KZN’s night. She saw the
boy who wanted to love and be loved. And
still… I stained her world red. I pause,
leaning against the gatepost, staring at the
house behind it. Tholakele’s house. Now
quiet. Too quiet. There are no drunken shouts
anymore. No barking orders from the man
whose last words were, “You will never
belong to a Zulu dog.” Funny. He bled like
any other man. I close my eyes, and his voice
plays like a haunting track over slow drums.
“Uzongibulalela indodakazi yami,
Zakhelikhaya. Uzomfaka kule game yakho.”
(You’ll kill my daughter, Zakhelikhaya. You’ll
drag her into your game.)
He wasn’t wrong. But he didn’t understand—
Tholakele was the game-changer. Not just the
girl with lips like prayers and eyes like
ancestral re… She was the reason I wanted
out. But he didn’t give me a chance to
explain. Just aimed a gun at her head. And I
pulled the trigger rst.
I drop the blood-soaked rag in a black plastic
bag and tie it shut, then toss it into the boot
of Spoko’s Golf.
Spoko: “Done?”
Spoko asks from the driver’s seat.
His voice is hoarse. He doesn’t look at me.
He’s afraid to.
Me: “Not even close,”
I say, wiping my hands on my jeans.
From the back seat, Luthando lights a
cigarette.
Spoko: “Her uncles are going to come, bro,”
he says.
Spoko: “You know how it works. Blood for
blood. Especially since he was—”
Me: “I know who he was,”
I cut him off. The air between us tightens.
They don’t get it.
This isn’t just about some war that’s been
brewing for generations. This is about her.
Her safety. Her sanity. Her freedom. If I have
to burn this province to the ground for
Tholakele to sleep peacefully again, I will. We
drive for a while, past places that used to sing
my name. BP Garage. The spin lot in
Pinetown. The shisanyama near Umlazi where
I rst saw her dance like no one had ever
broken her. My phone buzzes. A message
from her.
Tholakele:
“Did you do it?”
I stare at the screen. She doesn’t ask why I
did it.
Or how.She already knows. She just wants to
know if she’s nally safe. I type back:
“He won’t touch you again. Ever.”
“Your name’s clean now.”
No response. I don’t expect one. Some
wounds take longer to stop bleeding. But I’ll
wait. Even if I bleed while I wait. Back at my
apartment, I strip out of my clothes and stand
under the shower until the water runs cold.
The blood is gone from my hands. But in the
mirror… I still see it. Right there behind my
eyes. I dry off and walk to the balcony with a
hoodie in hand. Not just any hoodie.
Hers.
The one she left in my car after that night at
the car wash. It still smells like her. Soft
lavender and wildness. I press it to my face
and inhale. Then I fold it gently and place it
on my pillow. Tomorrow, I’ll go to her. Not as
a gangster. Not as a killer. But as the man
who loves her more than his own life.
Because if I can’t clean the blood from my
past… Maybe I can build a future in her
arms.

CHAPTER 22

The house is too quiet now. No shouting. No

breaking bottles. No dragging footsteps at
2AM. No monster with whisky breath waiting
in the hallway. Just silence. Heavy, unfamiliar,
and somehow louder than anything I’ve ever
known. I sit on my bed with my legs crossed,
the floor beneath me still carrying echoes of
last night’s storm. Gogo hasn’t said much
since. She made tea. Prayed louder than
usual. Kept looking at me like she knew
something but didn’t want to say it. I haven’t
cried. Not yet. I don’t know if it’s numbness…
or peace. But what I do know is this:
Zakhelikhaya Zulu killed my father. And I’m
still here. Breathing. Heart beating. Soul
intact.I open the black plastic bag Zakhe left
on my doorstep before sunrise. No note.
Just… the hoodie. His hoodie. The same one
I stole when he let me nap in his car months
ago. The one he always wanted back but
never really asked for. The one that smelled
like petrol, mint gum, and him. I clutch it to
my chest now like it’s holy. Like a sacred
offering from a sinner to his goddess. I bury
my face in it, nally letting the tears fall. Not
for my father. Not for the blood. But for the
boy who became my shield. Who made
himself a weapon, so I didn’t have to be one
anymore. Later that night, I pull the hoodie
over my tank top.
It swallows me. I love it. I climb into bed and
hug my knees to my chest, my mind swirling
with questions no one can answer yet: Will
they come for him? Will I be blamed? Do I…
still love him? Yes. That last one is the only
answer I know for sure. I love Zakhelikhaya
Zulu.
Madly.
Desperately.
Terrifyingly.
Even now.
Even still.
Even after.
And I know what I felt when I opened that
gate and saw the blood smeared across the
stoep…
My name written in red.
“THOLAKELE VILAKAZI.
YOU ARE MINE.”

I fall asleep with the hoodie wrapped around

me like armor. And in my dreams, he’s there.
Not holding a gun. Not covered in blood.
Just… smiling. Telling me to breathe again.
Telling me I’m safe now.
Telling me he’d do it all over again. The lights
flicker as Gogo walks past my room,
humming some old church hymn under her
breath. She hasn’t said a word about last
night. Not about the scream. Not about the
blood. Not about the gunshots. But every
time she looks at me, I can feel her worry
knotting tighter. She knows. She doesn’t
know how, but she knows. That hoodie still
clings to my body like a second skin. It’s
oversized and heavy, but it makes me feel
protected. Like Zakhe is still wrapped around
me, even if he’s somewhere hiding,
running… or bleeding. I sit up, suddenly
restless. I grab my phone. It’s 00:41.
No texts.
No calls.
Not even a missed one. He’s disappeared into
the shadows again. Just like he promised he
would.
FLASHBACK
The night before.
When Zakhe came back covered in blood.
Zakhe: “I did it,”
he whispered, voice calm, hands trembling.
Zakhe: “Thola, I killed him.”
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I didn’t cry.
I just… watched the boy I loved confess to
murder like it was poetry.
Zakhe: “He was going to kill you,” Zakhe said.
Zakhe: “I warned him. I told him if he touched
you again—”
He paused. Swallowed hard.
Zakhe: “I carved your name into the walls of
hell so the devil himself knows who you
belong to.”
I think that’s when I started shaking. Not from
fear… From knowing that this man loved me
so loudly he left ngerprints in death.
Me: “You have to go,”
I told him. But all he did was touch my
cheek. Blood on his thumb. Tears in his eyes.
Zakhe: “I’ll always nd my way back to you,
hoodie girl.”
PRESENT
I step outside.
The air is cold, wind brushing through the
trees, carrying secrets and sins with it. I sit
on the stoep, wearing nothing but his hoodie
and socks. I watch the bloodstain near the
steps. Faded now. Washed by rain. But still
there. Like a memory you can’t scrub clean.
The gate creaks. I turn quickly. Nothing. No
one. But there’s something new on the gate.
Scratched in with a key or a knife.
"Z.Z was here.
Still is.
Always will be."
I press my hand to my mouth, biting back the
scream that wants to come out. He was here.
While I was asleep.
He came back.
He didn’t knock.
He just left a mark… like always. I go back
inside, heartbeat unsteady, hoodie sleeves
too long on my arms. I curl into bed,
wrapping myself in the scent of him. I don’t
care about the world anymore. Not the police.
Not the whispers. Not the death. I just want
him to be okay. I want his hands to hold me,
not bleed. I want his lips to kiss me, not
confess. I want his hoodie to be warm from
his body, not soaked in sorrow. I close my
eyes. And for the rst time in weeks, I
whisper a prayer. Not for forgiveness. Just for
him. I dream of re. Not the kind that burns
skin—
The kind that lives in a man's eyes when he
looks at you like you're the only reason he
breathes. Zakhelikhaya.
Zakhe.
Zulu war born. Made of steel and silence. He
held me that night.
After everything.
After the blood.
After the shaking of my hands and the
cracking of my voice. He held me like I was
his only remaining truth.

FLASHBACK – A few hours before he

vanished
His hands were wet.
Red.
But warm. He came to my room in the dead
of night like a ghost refusing to rest.
Me: “Ngiyesaba,”
I whispered. I’m scared.
Zakhe: “I know.”
His voice was low. Gentle. Broken.
Zakhe: “But you’ll never be scared of me.”
And I wasn’t. Not even when he undid the
buttons of his shirt and I saw the dried blood
on his chest, his stomach. Not even when I
saw the scratch on his cheek from the ght—
probably from the moment my father reached
for the gun. I helped him take it off.
His shirt.
His fear.
His sin.
I gave him my hoodie. The grey one. The one
he always said smelled like vanilla and
danger. He wore it, kissed my forehead, and
said,
Zakhe: “Keep it warm for me.”
Then he disappeared.

NOW
My phone pings.
1 New Message
Private Number
*"Saw you sleeping. Didn’t want to wake you.
I left something by the tree where we kissed
the rst time.
 Z."*
I fly out of bed barefoot, the hoodie swaying
over my thighs as I dash through the house
like a girl possessed. The wind is colder now.
The trees quieter. Like they’re keeping his
secret. I reach the tree. There, beneath the
roots, wrapped in a black bandana, is a small
wooden box. Old. Burned at the edges. I
open it. Inside:
 A silver chain with my name engraved in
Zulu: "Ongcwele" (the sacred one)
 A folded photo of us from months ago —
me laughing, him staring at me like I held
the moon
 And a note.
The note reads:
Thola, If I die, don’t forget I lived for you. If I
vanish, know it’s only to protect you. If they
nd me, let them know my hoodie still lives
on your body, and my blood still boils for
you. You are re. And I… I was just the boy
who danced too close. Yours, always.
Zakhelikhaya Zulu.

I drop to my knees. And cry for the boy who

carries my name on his tongue like a prayer.
For the boy who killed a man to save me. For
the man who writes love letters like death
notes. I sleep in his hoodie again that night.
But now, it’s not just fabric.
It’s armour.
It’s memory.
It’s home.

CHAPTER 23
There are no tears at a killer’s funeral. Just
dirt. Silence. And the whispers of people too
scared to say what they really feel. Vilakazi is
dead.
My father. Murdered by a man who loved me
enough to bury his own peace beside him.
The village moves slow today. No car spins.
No music from the BP garage. Even the
gossip girls by the shisanyama wear black.
But not for mourning. For tradition. Because
when a feared man dies, people don’t cry.
They wait. To see if the devil comes to collect
what’s his.
Gogo doesn’t go. She sits in her chair at
home, burning impepho and humming a
song too old for any of us to remember the
words.
Gogo: “Uyabona lento yenu yokukhala
ezililini?”
she spits.
(You see this thing of yours—crying at
funerals?)
Gogo: “Akekho ofuna izinyembezi zomuntu
omubi.”
(No one wants the tears of a cruel man.)
She knows what he did. They all do. But no
one speaks it aloud. Because secrets still
walk in this village. Armed. Watching.
At the graveyard
Three men lower the cof n. Wood. Cheap. No
flowers.
Samu whispers
Samu: “Good riddance.”
Bawi doesn’t show up. MaVilakazi wears
sunglasses and a stone face, standing alone
like a widow without a soul to comfort her.
She doesn't cry either. Maybe she cried
enough while she was married to him. Maybe
her tears dried the day he put hands on her
for the rst time. Maybe she knows what we
all know now— That his death wasn’t loss. It
was release.

I stand far back. Hoodie still on. Zakhe’s scent

still alive around my neck.
My eyes scan the hills. I know he’s watching.
He always watches. Even in the shadows.
Even when silence screams louder than
gunshots. I whisper his name in my head like
a prayer.
Zakhelikhaya… As the nal shovel of soil hits
the cof n, a bird cries out in the sky above.
One sharp sound.
Then quiet. Someone mutters,
“Even God didn’t want him.”
No one says Amen. No one stays long.
No fake speeches. No gospel choirs.
Just a dead man in a forgotten grave. That
night, Gogo tells me something I’ll never
forget:
Gogo: “Sometimes funerals are loud because
people pretend. But when the silence is
heavy like this? It means even the soil is
relieved.”
And I believed her. Because no one cried at
my father’s funeral. Not even me. After the
dust settled over his grave, the village slowly
went back to its routine— Except something
had shifted. There was no sudden rain. No
dramatic collapse of the sky. No lightning
splitting the heavens like you’d expect in a
movie when a powerful man dies. Just quiet.
And I think that was worse.

Later that evening...

I walked home slowly. My legs felt like they
were carrying more than just my weight—
Maybe they carried generations of anger,
grief, and relief.
Maybe they carried guilt. Because even if I
didn’t pull the trigger,
Even if it wasn’t my blood on the floor, A part
of me had wished him gone for a long time.
And wishes, in this place, don’t stay idle for
long. I got home before the sun set. Gogo
didn’t ask how it went. She just looked at me.
Gogo: “You hungry?”
I shook my head. She nodded. She knew that
kind of hunger wasn’t for food. She sat me
down and lit another stick of impepho, the
smoke curling between us like a spirit looking
for a home.
Gogo: "You know,"
she began, her voice gravel-soft,
Gogo: "when a man dies with blood on his
hands, the ancestors don’t welcome him.
They wait. They ask questions.”
Me: “What if he didn’t answer?”
I asked. Her eyes, still sharp under her grey
lashes, looked deep into mine.
Gogo: “Then he’ll wander. And you’ll feel him,
now and then. But you mustn’t fear him. He
cannot hurt you anymore.”

That night I dreamed.

Not a nightmare— But it wasn’t peace either. I
saw him. My father. Standing at the gate of
our home.
Not angry. Not shouting. Just… there.
Watching. And behind him, the shadows of
the past stood tall. Uncle Bheka. My baby
sister who never made it past three. Women I
didn’t recognize—but I knew. Deep down.
They were part of his story. The parts he
never spoke of. He turned to leave… But just
before he disappeared, he pointed behind
me. Not at me. Behind me. I turned in the
dream and saw Zakhe. Not armed. Not
bleeding. Just standing with his back straight,
jaw clenched, and re in his eyes. My father
nodded.
Once. And then faded. I woke up with tears
on my pillow, but none of them were for him.

The next morning, the village whispered less.

Some looked at me with pity. Some with fear.
A few with something close to respect.
Because surviving Vilakazi meant something.
Even if no one dared say what. And deep
inside me, beneath the grief, was a small,
dangerous thing that began to grow:
freedom.

Zakhe’s POV
They buried him in the same red earth he
stained. No framed photo at the tent entrance.
No gospel music. No white doves. Just
silence.
And a hole in the ground too small for the
weight of all his sins. I stood far from the
family chairs, behind a tree where no one
would dare ask why I was there. I had blood
on my boots still. Not metaphorical. Real
blood.
His. And yet no one wept. Not even
Tholakele. The priest tried.
God knows he tried. Reading Psalms over a
cof n that refused to look holy. Reciting
peace over a man who never knew how to
say sorry. But the words fell flat. The air
wouldn't carry them. And even the birds
stayed quiet. I watched Tholakele. She wore
all black, but not like a grieving daughter.
More like a warning. Her hands never shook.
Her mouth never trembled. She looked at the
cof n like it was a closed chapter— Not a
loss, not a father. Just... a thing that needed
to end.

Bawi’s mother didn’t attend.

Too afraid, or too ashamed. I couldn’t blame
her. A lot of people had reasons to stay away.
Some of them were victims. Some were
cowards. Others were both. The shovel hit the
dirt.
They lled the hole. No speeches. No
celebrations. No ululations. Just the wind
blowing and the sound of Tholakele’s shoes
turning away— from him, from the grave,
from the girl she was before this story began.
Later that night, I sat outside Gogo’s house.
The moon was pale, like it hadn’t eaten in
days. I was thinking of how many men die
with no legacy worth writing down. Vilakazi
was one of them. But Tholakele? She was
becoming something else. Not his daughter.
Not my girl. Not a victim. Just re. Walking.
Healing. Dangerous. Gogo came to sit next to
me.
Gogo: “You look like him,”
she said suddenly. I blinked.
Me: “Vilakazi?”
She laughed once. Sharp.
Gogo: “No. The one you killed.”
Me: “Oh.”
She turned to face me, serious now.
Gogo: “You’re not like him, mntanam. You
killed to protect. He killed to silence.”
Me: “I don’t feel better.”
Gogo: “You’re not supposed to. Only
monsters sleep well after killing.”

Inside, Tholakele was writing something. I

watched her through the curtain— Black ink
on old paper, her face calm but stern. Maybe
it was a letter. Maybe it was a list. Maybe she
was nally writing her own story, in her own
handwriting. One thing was clear: The next
time she looked at the world, she wouldn’t be
asking it for permission. She’d be taking what
was hers.

CHAPTER 24

They thought it would end with the funeral.

They thought I’d cry. Break. Need saving. But
all I did was burn. My father was in the
ground. The man who swore he gave me
life—when all he did was haunt it. And now?
Now I was free. But freedom didn’t taste like
roses. It tasted like blood still stuck under
Zakhelikhaya’s nails. Like secrets no one
wanted to say out loud. Like a storm waiting
for someone to kiss it. He found me in the
backyard. Where the mango tree grew wild
and Gogo’s chickens refused to stay quiet. I
was sitting on the plastic chair, one leg
crossed, barefoot, wearing one of his old
black hoodies that smelled like sweat,
gunpowder, and sin.
Zakhe: “You good?”
he asked softly.
Me: “I buried my father,”
I said,
Me: “and nobody brought flowers.”
Zakhelikhaya didn’t say anything for a
moment. Then he walked closer, crouched in
front of me.
Zakhe: “You buried your past. Not your heart.”
I didn’t realize I was crying until he lifted his
hand and wiped the tears with his thumb. It
burned, like everything he touched always
did.
Zakhe: “I killed him for you,”
he whispered. I blinked at him.
Me: “I know.”
Zakhe: “You’re not scared?”
I leaned forward slowly, eyes locked on his.
Me: “Of you?”
He nodded once.
Me: “No,”
I whispered.
Me” “I’m scared of never seeing you again.”
He stood up, tugged me to my feet by the
waist. Held me like I was glass and danger all
at once.
Zakhe: “You’re mine now,”
he said. I bit my lip. I felt it in my bones, the
claim. The promise. The vow with no ring. I
nodded, breathing against his chest.
Me: “I was yours the moment you wrote my
name in blood.”
He kissed my temple. Soft. Deadly. Final. We
didn’t speak for a while. Just stood there in
the fading sunlight, two broken kids raised by
war and re. But together?We were gods.
Later that night, he laid me down gently.
Treated me like something he could ruin but
chose to worship instead. And when I
whispered his name, when he said mine like
it was holy, I knew this wasn’t just lust. It
wasn’t even love.
It was possession.
Mine.
His.
Ours.
The night pressed in around us, hot and still,
broken only by the soft hum of Gogo’s night
prayers drifting through the open window. I
lay beside him, my back pressed into the
curve of his chest, his arm draped
protectively over my waist.
Me: “Do you regret it?”
I whispered, tracing a nger along the scar
on his palm—the one from that rst ght we
survived together. He turned his head, his
lips brushing my temple.
Zakhe: “Regret what?”
Me: “Killing him.”
His breath stuttered. For a moment, I thought
he might pull away. Instead, he tightened his
arm.
Zakhe: “I did it so you could live,”
he said slowly.
Zakhe: “But every time I close my eyes, I see
his face. I see the moment I chose you over
my own peace.”
I shifted, looking up at him. His eyes were
darker than the night, haunted and gentle all
at once.
Me: “You chose well,”
I murmured.
Me: “Because I’d do the same for you.”
He pressed a kiss to my brow, then settled
his chin on my shoulder. We lay like that for a
long time, the world fading until there was
only the two of us, breathing in sync.
Zakhe: “Promise me,”
he whispered after a while,
Zakhe: “that you’ll never run.”
I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of his
words.
Me: “I promise,”
I said, though my voice shook.
Zakhe: “Good.”
He sighed.
Zakhe: “Because if you run… I’ll burn this
place down looking for you.”
I laughed softly, the sound bitter and sweet.
Me: “Then I’ll let you burn. We’ll rise from the
ashes together.”
We fell asleep tangled in each other’s arms.
And in my dreams, the ghosts came my
father, the men he hired, the shadows from
Gogo’s bones. But they couldn’t touch me.
Zakhe stood between me and them, gun in
hand, eyes aflame with wrath. And every time
the ghosts advanced, he red into the sky,
sending thunder crashing through my dream
until it shattered. I woke to his heartbeat, his
arm still around me, his face inches from
mine. Zakhe: “You okay?”
he asked softly. I nodded, pressing my lips to
his.
Me: “I’m not afraid.”
Morning light ltered in. I slipped out of his
arms and dressed quietly, pulling on a loose
T-shirt of his and my own shorts. At the door,
I found a single red rose on the floor—its
petals still fresh. No note, but I knew. He
appeared behind me, arms crossed, giving
me that half-smile that both promised war
and peace.
Zakhe: “For you.”
I picked up the rose, tucking it behind my ear.
Me: “Thank you.”
He nodded solemnly.
Zak“Now let’s face the day.”
Outside, the township was already waking.
Children ran past singing, taxis honked in the
distance, and somewhere, a dog barked. Life
continued — messy, loud, and relentless. But
I felt different. Armed not with a gun, but with
certainty. I belonged to him. He belonged to
me. And together, no one could touch what
we’d claimed. I slipped my hand into his as
we walked through the yard, the rose petal
brushing against his wrist. He squeezed my
hand, leaning down to whisper:
Zakhe: “You’re mine now.”
And I smiled, answering without words,
because some vows don’t need sound. The
night didn’t just hold us — it wrapped us in
shadows and whispered promises only we
could hear. His ngers traced patterns on my
skin like a prayer, reverent and erce. I felt the
weight of every unspoken vow between us,
every broken past we were burning down
together. He pulled me closer until my breath
hitched, and his lips found mine—slow,
demanding, a claim that sent re racing
through my veins.
Zakhe: “You’re mine,”
he said against my mouth, voice low and
raw.
Zakhe: “No one touches you but me.”
I swallowed, heart pounding in sync with his
words.
Me: “And you’re mine,”
I whispered back, erce and trembling all at
once. The world outside ceased to exist.
There was only this room, our bodies, the
heat of skin on skin, the thunder of our
hearts. He pressed me down gently but with
authority, hands mapping every curve, every
scar, every story I hadn’t dared tell. His touch
was both a confession and a promise — that
even in darkness, he would hold me, protect
me, claim me. Hours passed like seconds.
When the re burned low, he held me close,
his breath slow, his voice a soft murmur in
the quiet.
Zakhe: “Whatever comes,”
he said,
Zakhe: “we face it together.”
I nodded against his chest, feeling the erce,
unbreakable bond between us. Outside, the
night deepened. But inside, we were re and
ash,
love and war, two souls forever tangled.

CHAPTER 25
Zakhe’s POV

Every building I pass wears her name. Not in

paint. Not in words anyone else would dare
read. But in blood. I leave my mark where
they tried to erase her—on walls cracked by
time and neglect, on fences beaten down by
hate, on shutters that shudder like they
remember.
“Tholakele Vilakazi.”
It’s more than a name now. It’s a warning. A
promise. A curse. They say blood is thicker
than water, but this blood is thicker than fear.
Thicker than tradition. Thicker than death
itself. When I write her name in red across
the city, I write our story in de ance. In every
alley where whispers once tried to drown her,
I scream her truth. In every shadow that once
hid threats, I blaze light. The city is my
canvas. And she—my masterpiece. I
remember the night I killed her father. How
the gunshot echoed through the streets like a
verdict. How the blood on my hands felt both
heavy and freeing. How, after, the world
seemed to hold its breath. But in that silence,
I made a vow: No one would ever harm her
again. No one would try to erase her from
this world. I am the re that burns for her.
The storm that breaks chains. The shadow
that guards her steps. Every night, I walk
these streets, painting her name—sometimes
bold, sometimes like a whisper—on every
surface that matters. People see the red and
remember. They see my blood and think
twice. She’s mine. Not just in this life, but in
every ght, every breath, every scar. And
when they ask me why, I only need to look at
the memory of her smile—bright enough to
set this whole city ablaze. I trace my ngers
over the fresh red letters I carved into the old
warehouse wall—Tholakele Vilakazi—each
stroke deliberate, soaked with blood and re.
This city thinks it can bury her, silence her,
make her vanish like smoke in the wind. But
every building she passes will know: she
belongs here. I am the blood that stains these
walls. The warning they’ll never forget. The
car wash was next. I painted her name over
the cracked windowpane, a bold scar against
the grime. The guys working inside glanced
at me, eyes wide, knowing but not daring to
ask.She’s protected.
Marked.
Mine.
At BP Garage, where I rst saw her laugh —
that wild, unbreakable laugh — I wrote her
name again. Larger this time. Tholakele
Vilakazi.
In red. And beneath it, a single word: Mine. I
don’t need to say it out loud.
This city knows. Every alley, every corner,
every shadow holds a piece of her. And I’ll
keep writing until the whole world
understands—
She is mine.
Blood drips down my hands. But it’s not just
from the paint. It’s from the ght inside me.
The battle between the man I was and the
man I have to be for her. I am the storm that
guards her. The re that burns for her.The
shadow she can always run to. I wipe my
hands on my jacket and look up at the city
lights flickering against the night sky. For her,
I would burn it all down. Because she is
worth every scar, every battle, every drop of
blood. The city doesn’t sleep. It watches. It
remembers. And it knows who owns the
night. Every time I lift that knife, every time
the blood drips down my ngers, I’m not just
marking walls — I’m marking territory. Her
territory. Tholakele’s territory.
They try to erase her.
They try to silence her.
But I ght back with every stroke, every scar I
leave on these buildings. Each letter in her
name burns into the concrete like a promise:
You will not forget her. You will never erase
her. It’s not just blood. It’s my soul spilling
out. I remember the rst time I carved her
name on the BP Garage, the fear in my chest,
the weight of what I was about to do.
But then I saw her face in my mind — erce,
unbreakable, beautiful — and I knew this was
for her. Sometimes, at night, I hear
whispers—questions about why I do this,
what I’m ghting for. They don’t understand
that it’s not just protection. It’s worship. It’s
love written in red. I wipe the sweat and
blood from my brow, stepping back to admire
the scar I left.
Her name.
My promise.
Our story.
One day, they will read it all.
Every building, every wall, every broken
fence. And they will know:
She is mine.

CHAPTER 26
The night air was thick with smoke and
sirens. The glow from the re at eMlazi
painted the sky orange — a erce, angry
blaze that swallowed homes and memories
alike. I stood on the edge of the chaos, heart
pounding, the weight of Zakhe’s hoodie heavy
on my shoulders.
“Thola, stay back!” someone shouted, but I
didn’t listen. Flames licked the corrugated
roofs, sending sparks flying like angry reflies
into the darkness. People screamed, children
cried, and the air tasted like burning wood
and broken dreams. I spotted Zakhelikhaya
moving through the crowd, calm but deadly,
eyes sharp like a hawk hunting its prey. He
was searching. For what, I didn’t know — but
I trusted him like my life depended on it,
because it did. Smoke choked the air, burning
my lungs, but I kept moving forward. Near a
crumbled shack, I saw him —Nkosi,
bleeding, clutching a makeshift weapon,
desperate.
Me: “Nkosi!”
I called out. Zakhe was already there, his
voice cold.
Zakhe: “Give it up.”
Nkosi spat blood, hatred flashing in his eyes.
Nkosi: “This isn’t over, Thola. You can’t hide
behind him forever.”

Zakhe stepped forward, hands steady.

Zakhe: “This ends tonight.”
The re roared louder, the heat pressing in,
and I knew whatever happened next, nothing
would ever be the same. I took a deep breath,
ready to stand beside him — ready to ght
for our future, even if it burned everything to
ashes. Because in this re, we were forged.
The heat was unbearable. Smoke clawed at
my throat, and the acrid smell of burning
wood and plastic lled the air. People ran
screaming, dragging whatever they could
save from the blaze. Mothers clutched
children, eyes wide with panic, while men
shouted orders, trying to control chaos that
was quickly slipping away. Zakhelikhaya
moved like a shadow through the crowd, his
presence cutting through the fear like a blade.
He found
Nkosi near the edge of the re, cornered
between a collapsed wall and the raging
flames.
Zakhe: “Nkosi,”
Zakhe said quietly but with iron beneath his
words.
Zakhe: “You’re nished.”
Nkosi sneered, his face smeared with soot
and blood.
Nkosi: “You think killing my father saved you?
You only made me stronger.”

The tension snapped like a wire. Zakhe

lunged forward, his sts clenched, eyes
burning with fury and pain. I stood frozen,
watching the ght ignite—two men ghting
for survival, for power, for a future neither
could guarantee.
Suddenly, a beam above them creaked and
cracked.
Me: “Watch out!”
I screamed. Zakhe pushed Nkosi aside just
as the beam collapsed in a shower of sparks
and wood. The ght spilled into the burning
ruins, and I knew then this night would mark
us forever. Flames danced around us like
hungry beasts, but we had no choice but to
ght through the re—to claim our lives from
the ashes. I grabbed Zakhe’s hand, pulling
him back toward safety.
Me: “Come,”
I urged.
Me: “We can’t win if we both burn.”
He hesitated but nally followed. As we fled
the inferno, I glanced back once. The flames
were devouring eMlazi. But from these
flames, something erce and unbreakable
would rise. Smoke stung my eyes and
clogged my throat, but I refused to turn away.
The flames hungrily consumed everything
around us—homes, memories, hopes—and
yet, amidst the chaos, a erce determination
burned brighter inside me. Zakhe’s grip
tightened on my wrist as he pulled me closer.
Zakhe: “Stay close,”
he commanded, voice low but urgent.
Zakhe: “We’re not safe yet.”
I nodded, trusting him like I always did—even
when fear threatened to swallow me whole.
Suddenly, a deafening crack echoed through
the night. A burning beam collapsed, sending
a shower of sparks dangerously close. I
stumbled but Zakhe caught me, steadying my
balance. Our eyes met—no words needed.
This was war. Ahead, I spotted Nkosi,
desperate and cornered, his face smeared
with soot and rage.
Nkosi: “It’s over,”
Zakhe warned him, muscles coiled like a
predator. But Nkosi only sneered.
Nkosi: “You think killing my father stopped
me? You just lit the fuse.”
The tension snapped. Fists flew. The ght was
raw, brutal, and unrelenting. Flames licked at
their feet, smoke choking the space between
them. I felt a sudden shift—instinct
screaming danger.
Me: “Watch out!”
I shouted as a burning plank cracked beneath
them. Zakhe dove, pushing Nkosi away just
as the beam crashed down. Heart pounding, I
pulled Zakhe back from the edge of disaster.
The re raged on, but so did we. In that
inferno, amidst pain and fear, I saw our
future—scorched but unbroken. And I knew,
no matter what burned away, what remained
between us was stronger than any flame.

Zakhe’s POV
I’ve seen a lot of res in my life. Fires that
light joints behind taverns. Fires that cook
Sunday kos. Fires that burn when men lie and
women snap. But this re—this one at
eMlazi—was different. It wasn’t just flames
licking corrugated roofs. It was war. It was
legacy. It was my name being written in
smoke across the skyline. I stood on top of
the hood of my Golf, eyes burning from more
than just the smoke, watching as my boys did
what they were born to do. Protect what was
mine. What had my blood on it.
What had her name on it. Tholakele Vilakazi.
Nkosi’s people thought they could take a slice
of eMlazi. Slice my heart. Slice my empire.
They came with petrol bombs and bravado.
We came with repower and fury.
Me: “Don't let anyone near the car wash!”
I shouted, my voice hoarse from the ash.
Behind me, my most trusted—ZuluBoy,
Tshego, Mthunzi—moved like shadows. My
family. My soldiers. My everything. Gunshots
cracked like thunder in the distance, and still,
I thought of her. Safe. At Gogo's.
At least, I hoped. I needed this done before
sunrise. I needed to return to her smelling
like smoke and gunpowder, not death. Then I
saw him. Nkosi. Drenched in sweat. Mask off.
Rage and desperation painted across his face
like war paint. He stepped forward from the
chaos, alone, bold.
Nkosi: “This isn’t over, Zakhelikhaya!” he
roared. I hopped off the Golf and walked
straight into the inferno. Gun in my hand.
Pain in my chest. And a future in my eyes.
Me: “It ends tonight,”
I said quietly, raising my weapon. He lunged
before I pulled the trigger.
We fell into flames, sts swinging, teeth
gritting. He landed a punch. I bit through
blood and hit harder.
Nkosi: “You killed your own father for that
girl!”
he spat, trying to pin me. I smiled, dark and
cracked.
Me: “Damn right I did.”
The nal blow was mine. He fell like a tree cut
from its roots. And I stood over him, panting,
the re behind me dancing like a victory
chant. By the time the SAPS sirens sang
through the smoke, we were already gone.
Back to Tholakele. Back to the house with her
scent on the pillows. Back to a love forged in
blood and re. Because eMlazi didn’t just
burn. It cleansed.

CHAPTER 27

I hadn’t seen him in three days.

Three long, sleepless, storm-ridden days.
Each night, I lay in Gogo’s house staring at
the cracks in the ceiling, praying they weren’t
signs from the ancestors. Praying the man
who carved his name into the skin of this
world—into me—was still breathing. And
then he appeared. Just after midnight.
Smelling like gunpowder, gasoline, and
victory. I heard the knock—three short, one
long. Zakhe’s code. My heart nearly stopped.
I swung the door open so fast I almost pulled
it off the hinges. There he stood—bruised,
bleeding slightly above his brow, his crisp
white vest now streaked with black soot and
ash.
Zakhe: “Hi, sthandwa,”
he said softly, voice gravelly. I threw my
arms around him so hard it hurt us both.
Me: “Zakhe,”
I breathed, inhaling him like air I’d been
denied. He held me tight, his ngers digging
into my back, grounding himself in me like I
was the only real thing left.
Zakhe: “I told you,”
he whispered against my ear.
Me: “Don’t touch what’s mine.”
His lips found my neck like they belonged
there. His hands trembled slightly—not from
fear, but from restraint. He had been on the
edge of hell and come back just to hold me
again. We didn’t make it to the bedroom. We
kissed like we hadn’t seen each other in
years, like we didn’t know if we’d see each
other tomorrow. His body pressed mine
against the wall, and every bruise on him told
a story. Every scar spelled out my name. He
didn’t want comfort.
He wanted to claim. He pulled back just
slightly, forehead pressed to mine, breath
heavy.
Zakhe: “I left bodies for you, Thola. I burnt a
street for you. If anyone touches you again,
I’ll make the earth bleed.”
My voice barely came out.
Me: “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
His eyes darkened.
Zakhe: “So be it. But not before they know—
you belong to me.”

He kissed me again, harder this time.

And in that moment, I didn’t care about the
chaos. About the dead.
About the smoke rising from eMlazi. All I
knew was that in his arms, I wasn’t a Vilakazi.
I wasn’t the daughter of a man he buried. I
was his. Only his. And heaven help whoever
tried to touch what belonged to Zakhelikhaya
Zulu.

Zakhe’s POV
I should’ve stayed away. I knew it the second I
stepped over Gogo’s doorstep, my shoes
dragging blood from the street. My body
begged for sleep. My hands were still raw
from the heat of the re I’d set hours ago. But
my soul? My soul ached for her. For
Tholakele. She looked at me like she’d been
holding her breath for days, like she wasn’t
sure I was real. I didn’t say much—I never do.
But when she touched my face, my body
gave up pretending I was a man still in
control. Her ngers ran across the gash on
my cheek. She looked like she wanted to cry.
But Tholakele doesn’t cry. Not anymore. Not
since I killed her father. Not since I told her
the truth about what we are. She tried to pull
me toward the couch, but I caught her hand
mid-air.
Me: “No,”
I said softly.
Me: “Not yet.”
She tilted her head.
Me: “There’s something I need you to see.”
I took her outside. My car was still running.
In the back seat was a canvas bag. I pulled it
out and handed it to her. Her hands shook as
she opened it. A gun. Three stacks of cash. A
small, velvet pouch. And her father’s ring.
She looked up at me, wide-eyed.
Thola: “What’s this?”
Me: “Insurance,”
I said.
Me: “You ever need to disappear, you use
this. But until then… this stays with you.”
She tried to hand it back. I refused.
Me: “You’re mine, Thola,”
I said, chest burning with more than just the
smoke in my lungs.
Me: “And I don’t let anyone touch what’s
mine. Not even fate.”
When we got back inside, I made her tea the
way Gogo always does. One sugar. Drop of
honey. Chamomile and lemon. Her hands
were cold. But when I touched her, when I
kissed her—slow, sure, like the promise it
was—she warmed. Melted. I didn’t need to
undress her. Just look at her. The girl I nearly
lost. The girl who saw my monsters and
didn’t run. Later, when she fell asleep on my
chest, I watched her breathing. There’s a
softness in the way she lays. The same girl
who stood over her father’s body. The same
girl who didn't scream when I whispered,
Me:"It was me."
I’d kill again for her. I’d burn all of Durban to
the ground for her. Because she’s not just
mine. She’s me. And if anyone touches what’s
mine again… I’ll make sure their entire
bloodline forgets what peace feels like.

Thola’s POV
I woke up to the scent of smoke clinging to
his skin. Not the smoke of cigarettes or weed.
It was deeper—heavier. Like something had
burned... and Zakhe had stood in its heart
and walked away untouched. He was already
awake. Shirtless. Covered in new scars. But
his hands, those dangerous hands, were
butter-soft when they touched my cheek.
Zakhe: “Uzolala kahle?”
he asked quietly. I nodded. But the truth
was—I hadn't. How could I, when I knew
what he was capable of? How could I, when
the man I now loved had made blood rain
from rooftops just to keep me safe? The city
was talking. There were whispers all over
eMlazi—rumors about the Avanza boys, a
new body count in uMlazi D Section, and
buildings tagged in blood-red paint that read
one thing over and over again:
THOLAKELE.
I’d seen the photos on Facebook. On
statuses. People thinking it was some gang
tag. But I knew better. I knew the hand behind
the madness. And I knew it was all… for me.
Zakhelikhaya walked back into the room, his
gun tucked into his pants, his hoodie halfway
zipped.
Zakhe: “You don’t have to be scared of me,
sthandwa,”
he said, standing over me like a shadow I
never asked for—but now couldn’t breathe
without.
Zakhe: “Everything I touch, I protect. That
includes you.”
I swallowed hard.
Me: “Zakhe…”
He crouched in front of me, his voice thick.
Zakhe: “They came for you. Your own blood.
Your father sold you like you were meat.”
Tears welled in my eyes. Not because he was
wrong. But because he was right. When he
leaned in and kissed me, I didn’t resist. His
lips tasted like danger and desperation. His
kiss was a warning: Don’t ever think of
leaving me. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It
was possession in its rawest form. But my
body didn’t flinch. It leaned in. It craved. He
stood up again and walked to the window,
peering through the blinds with a sharpness
that told me something was brewing.
Zakhe: “You’re not going to class today,”
he muttered.
Me: “Zakhe, I have a test,”
I whispered. He turned slowly.
Zakhe: “I said, you’re not going.”
His voice left no room for argument.
And even though it made the rebel in me
bristle… it made the woman in me feel safe.
Loved.
Owned.
He pulled a chain from his pocket—a thin
gold one. A small bullet charm dangled from
it. He walked over, opened the clasp, and
placed it around my neck.
Me: “What is it?”
I asked.
Zakhe: “The rst bullet I didn’t use,”
he whispered.
Zakhe: “The one I kept. For the man who
would’ve taken you from me.”
I froze.
Me: “My father.”
He nodded. Silence settled between us.
Heavy. Real. And then Zakhe stepped closer,
his forehead pressed against mine.
Zakhe: “I don’t care who it is, Tholakele.
Family, friend, cop, devil himself. If they try to
touch you… to take you from me…”
His eyes turned to stone.
Zakhe: “I’ll show them why the streets call me
umthunzi wegazi—the shadow of blood.”
The thing about surviving re… is that it
changes you. It burns away the soft parts. It
melts the innocence, and what’s left behind is
something unrecognizable to the girl who
once laughed at the BP Garage, dancing in
crop tops, unaware that her name would one
day be written in blood across every corner
of KwaZulu-Natal. That girl is gone. I buried
her the night Zakhelikhaya shot my father in
front of me. Now? Now they look at me
differently. When I walk into the shisanyama,
the music dips. When I stop at the tuck shop,
the boys who used to catcall fall silent. Even
the older women whisper when I pass:
“Yilona-ke uTholakele kaZakhelikhaya…”
“Awuboni? Ngisho iBhari linesithunzi sayo.”
“Akathintwa. Awumtinti!”
I didn’t ask to be feared. I didn’t ask to be
protected with blood and bullets and ash. But
it happened. And deep inside me, something
shifted. I sat at the back of Zakhe’s Golf GTI,
windows tinted so dark you’d think it was
night inside. He sat in the front with Kwazi
and Mdu, discussing the next warehouse
takeover. My name came up more than once.
“Tholakele ayiveli lapho. Ayikho into
eyohlupha uTholakele.”
“She doesn’t show up unless it’s clean.”
“Check everyone. Even the guys bringing
water bottles. I’m not playing.”
And I just… listened. Untouchable. Later,
when we pulled up at the spot in Inanda, the
girls were already waiting. The Avanza Crew’s
“wives” or “girlfriends” or “flavours.” All of
them pretty, all of them nervous. But when I
stepped out? Heads turned. A few girls
smiled with small, tight mouths. The fake
kind. One of them, tall with lashes like
feathers and a waist smaller than mine,
scoffed under her breath.
Woman: “She thinks she’s the queen just
‘cause her man’s got the crown.”
I paused. Turned. And stared her dead in the
eyes.
Me: “I didn’t ask for the crown,”
I said, walking up slowly.
Me: “But if it’s already mine—then bow or
bleed.”
Zakhelikhaya saw the exchange. He didn’t
laugh. He didn’t smile. He just walked over,
wrapped his arm around my waist, and
whispered in my ear:
Zakhe: “Talk your shit, sthandwa. You earned
every syllable.”
That night, there was a ght. One of the
smaller crews tried to shoot up the new
eMlazi stash house. They failed. They always
do. And when Zakhe came home with blood
on his sleeves and his jaw tight, I didn’t
flinch. I just wiped his hands clean, kissed
the cut on his neck, and climbed into his lap
like I belonged there. Because I did. Because
I do. I wasn’t just some girl from KwaMashu
anymore. I was his. His madness. His muse.
His mission. And whether I liked it or not…
I was now a legend in the making.

Zakhelikhaya started calling me umthakathi

womphefumulo wakhe — the witch of his
soul. It should’ve scared me, how deeply this
man loved. How violently he claimed. But
instead… It thrilled me. I stopped going to
places that didn’t feel like power. I stopped
entertaining conversations that didn’t feed the
empire he was building around my name.
Gone were the days of innocent giggles and
lipstick-stained Savanna bottles. Now, it was
black Range Rovers, custom gold-plated
handguns in his glovebox, and encrypted
phones that buzzed with whispers of
ambushes, betrayals, and blood.
There was a night… Zakhe stood behind me
while I looked at myself in the mirror. His
hands slid down my arms slowly, like he was
counting each scar, each memory.
Zakhe: “You’re not mine anymore,”
he murmured, voice hoarse.
Zakhe: “You belong to these streets now. You
belong to legends. Ngiyesaba… but I’m
proud, sthandwa.”
I turned to face him.
Me: “No,”
I whispered.
Me: “I’m yours. Always. But now… they know
not to touch what’s yours.”
He kissed me like that statement was gospel.
Later, at a street ceremony in Chesterville —
a coded “blessing” ritual that only the
underworld knew — Zakhelikhaya lit a flame
in the center of the circle, a cigarette hanging
from his lips, and declared:
Zakhe: “There’s no queen unless her name
makes the city bow.”
Then, with a red can of spray paint, he turned
to a wall and wrote in giant, dripping letters:
“THOLAKELE THE UNTOUCHABLE.”
People cheered. Phones came out. Someone
posted the image on Twitter that night. It went
viral.
The caption?
“I don’t know who she is, but every girl in
KZN wants to be her and every man knows
not to breathe her name unless they’re ready
to die.”
I couldn’t sleep that night. Not because I was
afraid. But because I nally understood what
it meant to become something. Not a side
chick. Not a pretty girl. Not someone’s secret.
Not even someone’s weakness. But a force. A
living threat. A breathing omen. A name you
say with your chest or not at all. I curled up
next to Zakhelikhaya in bed, watching the city
lights through the bulletproof window.
Me: “You think we’ll ever make it out?”
I asked softly. He didn’t open his eyes.
Zakhe: “We already outlived what tried to bury
us, baby,”
 he said.
Zakhe: “That means we made it.”

CHAPTER 29
They told me my mother was dead.
Burned in the re my father started.
Another victim of his sel sh rage. But my
mother — Slindile Vilakazi — wasn’t a woman
who died quietly. She was a shadow that
learned how to move like smoke, unseen but
everywhere. I saw her for the rst time in
years on a random Tuesday.
Zakhelikhaya had just left for a meeting in
Umlazi. I stayed behind in our Durban North
safehouse, curled up on the leather couch,
sipping ginger tea, trying to forget the way
Vilakazi’s blood soaked into the floorboards.
Then, the knock came. Soft. Deliberate. Not
the kind that begged for attention — the kind
that warned. I grabbed the gun Zakhe left me.
Switched off the lights. Heart racing. I opened
the door just a crack. And there she stood.
My mother.
Mama: “Don’t scream,”
she said. I didn’t. My mouth opened — but
no sound came out. Because death doesn’t
knock on your door wearing an old brown
church coat and smelling like old hair oil and
peppermint. Death doesn’t look like the
woman who used to hum lullabies while
xing your collar. But here she was. Slindile.
My mother. Alive. I let her in. She walked like
a ghost — like the walls should’ve crumbled
around her.
Mama: “I’ve been watching you, Thola,”
she said, sitting on the edge of the couch
like she’d never left.
Mama: “You’ve become… what I couldn’t.
And for that, I’m proud. But…”
She looked around.
Mama: “…this isn’t living. It’s surviving
louder.”

I dropped to my knees beside her.

I wanted to hug her. I wanted to punch her. I
wanted answers.
Me: “Why did you leave me?”
Mama: “Your father would’ve killed me. I knew
if I stayed, he’d use me against you. So I
disappeared. I paid my way through silence.”
Me: “You let me think you were dead.”
Mama: “I had to,”
she whispered.
Mama: “I’m sorry.”

Silence. Then she reached into her coat

pocket and pulled out a small cassette
recorder.
Mama: “I need you to hear something,”
she said.
Mama: “It’s a recording… from the night
before Vilakazi died. He wasn’t just coming for
you, Tholakele. He was working with
someone. Someone still watching you.”
I pressed play. The voice that came through
the tape made my blood run cold.
“Kill the girl. Make it look like a robbery. And
when she’s gone, you’ll get your seat at the
table, Vilakazi. No one questions dead
daughters.”
The voice… Was Wandi. My best friend. My
snake. The recorder clicked off. My mother
placed her hand over mine. Her eyes wet.
Mama: “Be careful, baby girl. The war isn’t
over.”
I stood up slowly, gripping the recorder like it
was a weapon.
Me: “They should’ve buried me,”
I said.
Mama: “Because now? I’m coming for
everyone who whispered my death.”
I couldn’t stop shaking. Not because I was
scared. Not anymore. But because the voice
on that cassette was someone I trusted with
my dreams. Wandi. My best friend. The one
who taught me how to thread my rst wig.
The one who held my hand the day I started
my period in Grade 7 and didn’t have a pad.
And she wanted me dead? I turned to my
mother, still calm, still composed — like her
heart wasn’t breaking watching mine shatter.
Me: “Why now?”
I asked her.
Me: “Why show up now?”
She looked at me — and in her eyes I saw
the same re that lived in mine.
Wandi: “Because I heard Zakhelikhaya wrote
your name in blood across the buildings of
Umlazi,”
she said.
Wandi: “Because you’re louder than fate now.
And if they’re still coming for you... you
deserve to know why.”
I blinked back the tears.
Me: “How long have you been watching me?”
Me: “Since you were seventeen. Since the
night you beat that boy at the tavern for
slapping you.”
My breath caught.
Me: “You were there?”
Mama: “In the car. Across the street. I cried
the whole drive home.”
We sat in silence again. My mother. Alive.
The world shifting on its axis. There were
things I wanted to ask.
Where had she been hiding? Who helped her
disappear? Did she ever miss me? But none
of it mattered more than what she’d brought
with her — truth. I stood slowly. My whole
body felt heavy. Like grief, rage, betrayal, and
love were all trying to live inside me at once.
Me: “I’m going to burn her whole world,” I
said.
Me: “Wandi. She wanted a seat at the table —
I’ll bury her under it.”
Slindile nodded once.
Mama: “I taught you well.”
She stood too. Reached out, brushed a stray
braid behind my ear.
Mama: “I can’t stay,”
she whispered.
Mama: “They’ll nd me if I do. But I’ll be near.
And when it gets too loud, look for me in the
wind. I’ll be there.”
Me: “Mama…”
Mama: “Shh.”
She pulled me into a hug. It smelled like
home.
Mama: “I’m proud of you, Tholakele. Not
because you survived. But because you
refused to stay small.”
She slipped out the door before I could say
more. Gone, like smoke in a storm. I stood in
the living room, holding the recorder. Then I
grabbed my phone. Dialed Zakhelikhaya. He
picked up on the second ring.
Zakhe: “Love?”
Me: “She betrayed me, Zakhe.”
His voice sharpened.
Zakhe: “Who?”
“Wandi.”
Silence. Then:
Zakhe: “I’ll get the shovels.”
After my mother left, the house felt colder
than the night itself. Her words spun in my
mind, clashing with the crackle of Wandi’s
voice on the tape—my cousin, the one I’d
trusted to braid my hair, telling hitmen to kill
me for a seat at the table. I paced the room,
clutching the recorder as if it were a blade.
Samukelisiwe and Bawi would have torn this
house apart to protect me—yet Wandi
betrayed me for power. Zakhelikhaya arrived
just before dawn. His silhouette lled the
doorway, silent as a storm. When I told him it
was Wandi—not Bawi—he didn’t flinch.
Zakhe: “Wandi thought blood was thicker than
loyalty,”
he said.
Zakhe: “She forgot who taught you to ght.”
I met his gaze, anger and resolve burning in
my chest.
Me: “This is bigger than revenge,”
I said.
Me: “It’s about who stands by your side when
the world tries to bury you.”
He nodded.
Zakhe: “Then we stand together. Always.”
That morning, I walked to the BP Garage,
passing under the faded sign where my name
rst caught his eye. The early sun painted the
walls gold and red—like a promise. Bawi and
Samukelisiwe were waiting by the car wash,
faces pale but determined. When I
approached, Bawi stepped forward, tears in
her eyes.
Bawi: “Thola, I’m so sorry,”
she whispered.
Bawi: “I didn’t see it.”
Samukelisiwe wrapped her arm around me.
Samu: “We’ll x this. Together.”
I took a steadying breath.
Me: “We will. But rst… Wandi needs to
know she picked the wrong family.” That
night, under the dim glow of the shisanyama,
I replayed the tape one last time for my girls.
Wandi’s whisper echoed:
“Kill the girl, make it look like a robbery, and
you’ll sit at the table.”
Bawi slammed her st into her palm. Samu’s
jaw clenched.
Samu: “We’re not letting her rewrite our
story,”
Samu said. Bawi nodded ercely.
Bawi: “No one touches Tholakele Vilakazi.”
And as the embers crackled beside us, I felt
something ignite inside—stronger than fear,
darker than pain:
Family. And I thought: let the world see what
happens when you betray re itself. The tape
kept playing in my head long after I’d turned it
off.
Wandi’s voice — cold, calculated, betraying
me like a snake in the grass. She was family.
My cousin.
And she wanted me dead. Bawi was different.
She was my best friend — loyal, erce, and
the only sister Zakhelikhaya ever accepted.
And then there was Samukelisiwe, the quiet
shadow who watched over us all like a
guardian angel. When I told them everything,
Bawi’s face twisted in disbelief and hurt.
Bawi: “Wandi? No way. She’s like family.”
I nodded slowly.
Me: “Family who’d sell you out for power is
not family.”
Samukelisiwe stayed silent, but I knew her
heart was breaking with mine. Zakhelikhaya
held me tightly that night.
Zakhe: “I’ll handle Wandi,”
he promised, voice low and dangerous.
Zakhe: “No one betrays my queen and lives to
tell the story.”
We started planning. Maps, names, safe
houses, secret meetings. I wasn’t just ghting
for survival anymore. I was ghting to claim
my legacy — to show the world that betrayal
only makes the re burn hotter. Slindile’s
whisper wasn’t just a warning. It was a call to
arms. And I was ready.
CHAPTER 30
Zakhe’s POV

There’s a strange kind of peace in the eye of a

storm. And if anyone understood storms, it
was me. The city was burning, alliances were
shifting like sand beneath our feet, and the
blood I spilled still stained my hands. But
when I looked at Tholakele, all that chaos
melted away. She was re—wild, untamed,
dangerous. And I loved her like I loaded a
gun: carefully, deliberately, and ready to pull
the trigger at a moment’s notice. Tonight was
no different. We met in the back room of a
shisanyama—smoke swirling around us, the
distant sound of laughter and music outside.
The walls were thick with secrets, and the air
hung heavy with tension. I found her sitting
alone, her eyes sharp, her lips pressed into a
determined line.
Me: “Thola,”
I said, sliding next to her.
Me: “You look like you’re planning a
revolution.”
She smiled, a slow, dangerous curve.
Thola: “Maybe I am.”
I reached out, took her hand.
Me: “No one’s gonna take what’s ours. Not
Wandi. Not Bawi. Not anyone.”
Her gaze flickered to mine, erce and
unyielding.
Thola: “You ever think love is just another
weapon?”
I shrugged.
Me: “Maybe. But it’s the only one worth
ghting for.”

Our lips met—soft at rst, then erce, like

two warriors claiming ground. She tasted like
smoke and honey and something I couldn’t
quite name—a promise. We didn’t care about
the world outside. We didn’t care about the
blood and betrayal and the danger lurking in
every shadow.
Because in that moment, we were
untouchable. And our love? Locked and
loaded. The taste of her lips was a war cry
and a lullaby all at once.
In the chaos of our lives—where every breath
could be the last—this moment was ours.
Her ngers curled into my hair, pulling me
closer like she was anchoring herself to the
only thing real in a world full of ghosts. I
broke away just enough to look into her
eyes—those erce, unyielding eyes—and
whispered,
Me: “I’m not just ghting for you, Thola. I’m
ghting with you. Against them all.”
The music from the shisanyama drifted
through the cracked walls, but inside, time
slowed. Every heartbeat was a bullet. Every
touch a trigger. We moved together like we
were made for this—the re and the fury, the
love and the war.
Thola: “Promise me something,”
she said, voice low and urgent.
Me: “Anything.”
Thola: “If I fall…”
Her breath caught.
Thola: “You don’t stop ghting. Not for me.
Not for us. Not for what’s coming.”
I gripped her hand tighter.
Me: “Thola, if you fall, I’m taking everyone
who’s left with me.”
She smiled—a warrior’s smile.
Thola: “Then let’s make sure we don’t fall.”
We didn’t say it, but we both knew: our love
was a loaded weapon—deadly, powerful, and
dangerously close to the edge. And we were
ready to pull the trigger.

Thola’s POV
Zakhe’s hands were rm but gentle when he
pulled me close, as if holding me together in
a world trying to tear us apart.
Me: “Every day feels like war,”
I whispered against his chest.
Me: “But with you… I feel like I’m home.”
He kissed the top of my head and whispered,
Zakhe: “Then we ght for that home, no
matter the cost.”
The room was thick with smoke and tension,
but in that moment, nothing else mattered.
Not the threats lurking outside. Not the
enemies plotting in the shadows. Not the
ghosts of our pasts. Only us. We moved like
re and steel—raw, erce, unstoppable. Every
touch was a promise, every kiss a battle cry.
Love like ours wasn’t soft or sweet.
It was lock and load. Ready. Dangerous. And
alive. When we nally pulled apart, breathless
and aching, Zakhe smiled—dangerous and
sure.
Zakhe: “We survive. Together.”
Me: “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

CHAPTER 31
Bawi’s POV
It started with a laugh. Mine. Stupid and loud
in a township where laughter was a
dangerous thing to carry. He was leaning
against his car at the carwash. Gold teeth
flashing. Tattoos crawling up his neck like
secrets. They called him Fireboy. Not just
because he set the streets alight with his
spinning. But because you couldn’t touch him
without getting burned. And yet there I was…
walking straight into the flame.
Fireboy: “Bawi, right?”
he asked, not looking up from rolling a blunt.
My heart stuttered. How did he know my
name?
Fireboy: “You used to chill with Tholakele,”
he added, nally glancing at me. His eyes?
Smoke and danger. I nodded.
Me: “Still do.”
He grinned.
Fireboy: “Shame. I thought you were smarter.”
It should’ve ended there.
Me walking away. Him laughing. But
something in me—something broken—didn’t
move.
Me: “I heard you were trouble,”
I said. He stepped closer.
Fireboy: “I am. But I’m also honest about it.”
We met again that night.
And the night after that.
And the night after that.
He spun his car in circles, music shaking the
bones of the earth, and when he stepped
out… He kissed me like the world was
ending. And maybe, for me, it was. Because I
started lying to Thola. Started disappearing.
Started hiding the way his hand t around my
waist like it was made to hold me. I didn’t
plan to fall. Didn’t mean to betray her. But
Fireboy made it feel so easy. So thrilling. So
worth it. And now… Now I think I might be
in love with the devil.

Thola: “Where were you?”

Tholakele’s voice sliced through the silence
like a sharp blade. I froze halfway into the
house, Fireboy’s scent still on my skin.
Smoke. Fuel. Lust.
Me: “Out,”
I muttered, slipping off my heels.
Thola: “Out where, Bawi?”
she asked again, stepping into the hallway.
She looked tired. Paler than usual. And
worried. My best friend. My sister in spirit.
And I was about to break her. Fireboy said
she didn’t need to know.
Fireboy: “Thola’s ghting her own wars,”
he whispered as his hands mapped sin
across my body,
Fireboy: “She doesn’t need to know whose
bed you warm.”
But Thola knew something was wrong.
Thola: “You smell like petrol,” she said quietly.
I bit the inside of my cheek. She stared at me
like she was reading my soul.
Thola: “Bawi,”
she said,
Thola: “please tell me you’re not seeing him.”
I lied. I looked her in the eyes and lied.
Me: “No,”
I whispered.
Me: “I’m just… stressed.”
She believed me. Because Tholakele believes
in people. Even when she shouldn’t. Later that
night, Fireboy pulled up outside my place.
His window down. Music low. That slow
amapiano thump that makes your bones want
to misbehave.
Fireboy: “Let’s go,”
he said.
Me: “Where?”
He shrugged.
Fireboy: “Anywhere. As long as it’s not here.”
We drove through the dark. Past shebeens,
past sleeping shacks, past ghosts. He
reached over and touched my thigh like it
was his. And maybe… maybe it was now.
Fireboy: “You’re mine,”
he said, like it was fact. Like I didn’t belong
to myself anymore. I should’ve run. Should’ve
gone home and told Thola the truth. But
instead… I kissed him in the backseat. And
let the devil press his name into the heat of
my skin.

Thola’s POV
I couldn’t sleep. The walls of my room felt like
they were closing in.
Something was off. Bawi’s been lying. I’ve
known her long enough to hear the way her
voice trembles when she’s hiding something.
And lately… all she does is hide. I lay still in
bed, the moonlight drawing silver lines
across my ceiling. Then I heard it—her door
closing softly, the sound of car tires
crunching on gravel. She left again. I got up
and stood at my window. The car was black.
The same one I saw at the shisanyama two
weeks ago.
The same one Zakhelikhaya once warned me
about.
“That boy is a problem,” he said.
“He doesn’t fear God, and he doesn’t respect
love.”
Fireboy. That’s what they called him.
Because everything he touched either burned
or exploded. And now… he had his hands
on Bawi. I felt sick.
Not from jealousy—never that. But from the
sinking feeling in my stomach that Bawi didn’t
know what kind of monster she was sleeping
next to. She’s my girl. My sister. I’ve buried
bodies for her. And now I was scared I might
have to bury her too.

Bawi’s POV
He kissed me like I was oxygen after
drowning. Like he wanted to inhale my soul.
Fireboy was addictive. A walking explosion
dressed in gold chains and secrets.
Fireboy: “I’ll kill for you,”
 he whispered into my neck. I laughed,
thinking he was joking. But there was no
smile in his eyes.
Just re.
Just smoke.
Just promises dipped in danger. Later, he
dropped me off and sped off into the night. I
stood in the dark, drunk off his kiss and
something far worse—loyalty to the wrong
man.
I turned to nd a shadow sitting on my porch.
Tholakele. Her arms were crossed. Her eyes
red.
Thola: “You’re playing with re, Bawi,”
she said softly.
Bawi: “And when it burns you, don’t expect
me to put it out.”

I opened my mouth to lie again.

But I couldn’t.
Me: “I think I love him,”
I admitted, voice shaking. She closed her
eyes. And when she opened them again, her
face was hard as bone.
Thola: “You’re going to get one of us killed.”

CHAPTER 32
Zakhe’s POV
There’s a silence before a gun goes off. A
kind of stillness that feels like prayer. That’s
the quiet I woke up to. But this time, it wasn’t
God listening. It was her—Tholakele.
Standing at the edge of our bed, her hand
gripping my 9mm. Not shaking. Not crying.
Just still. Like her body had turned to stone. I
sat up slowly.
Me: “Thola…”
She didn’t look at me. Just stared at the wall
like it had whispered something to her soul.
Thola: “I had a dream,”
she said nally.
Thola: “Wandi was in it. So was Bawi. And
you. Dead. All of you. My hands were
covered in blood. My mother was singing in
the background.”
She turned to me.
Thola: “I think it wasn’t a dream.”
Thola: “I think it was a warning.”

I stood and walked to her. Carefully. But she

didn’t lift the gun. Instead, she placed it in my
hand… cold and slick with sweat. Our ngers
brushed.
Me: “You want me to protect you?”
I asked. She shook her head.
Thola: “No. I want you to teach me how to
kill.”

Tholakele’s POV
When you grow up being prey, something
inside you snaps when you nally bite back. I
wasn’t scared anymore. I wasn’t soft. I wasn’t a
daughter, or a girlfriend, or a girl who cried
over betrayal. I was re now. And re doesn’t
mourn what it burns. Zakhe took me to the
safehouse in the hills. The boys were already
there, cleaning weapons, whispering about
wars to come. He handed me the gun again.
This time, I didn’t hesitate.
Me: “Where do I shoot?”
I asked. He smirked.
Zakhe: “Anywhere you want. Just make sure
they don’t get up.”
Later that night, we drove through
Lamontville in silence. I saw Bawi’s silhouette
on the rooftop. Smoking. Crying. Alone. And
suddenly, I understood. She wasn’t a traitor.
She was trapped. By love. By Fireboy. By a
war she didn’t start but would bleed for
anyway. I climbed up beside her. Didn’t speak.
Just offered her the extra pistol Zakhe had
given me. Her hand trembled as she took it.
Bawi: “This isn’t who I am,”
she whispered. I looked into her tear-
streaked face. And said the words that tasted
like ash on my tongue:
Me: “It is now.”
I never imagined the weight of a gun could
feel so… honest. Like it belonged in my
hand all along. Not because I wanted to kill.
But because I no longer wanted to be
powerless. The safety was off. The night was
cold. And everything I believed about myself
was already dead. Zakhe stood behind me.
Silent. Watching. Not stopping me. Not
guiding me. Just… trusting. And that? That
was more dangerous than the gun itself.
Zakhe: “You sure about this?”
he asked, voice low, hoarse from lack of
sleep and too many cigarettes. I nodded
once.
Me: “I don’t want to be saved,”
I whispered.
Me: “I want to be ready.”
We were in the backyard of one of Zakhe’s
abandoned safehouses, the kind the police
never dared to raid. Empty bottles lined the
brick wall.
My rst lesson. He stepped closer, wrapped
his arms around mine, adjusted my grip.
Zakhe: “Breathe,”
he said.
Zakhe: “Squeeze. Don’t pull.”
I exhaled. Fired. The sound cracked through
the night. Three birds flew off a nearby tree.
And one bottle exploded into glass. I blinked.
Shocked.
Zakhe: “Good,”
he said, his breath hot against my ear.
Zakhe: “Again.”
By the fourth shot, my hands were steady. By
the sixth, my heart had slowed down. And by
the seventh, I knew I’d never be the same
again. Later that night, I sat on Zakhe’s lap in
the passenger seat as we drove. I held the
gun between my thighs like a secret. Like it
had replaced the part of me that used to
tremble in fear.
Me: “I want to go see Bawi,”
I said. He glanced at me, his jaw tightening.
Zakhe: “She hurt you.”
Me: “I know.”
Me: “And I still want to look her in the eyes.”

Bawi’s rooftop — 11:47 p.m.

She didn’t hear me climb. Didn’t even flinch
when I stepped into the moonlight beside
her. She sat there, hugging her knees,
mascara streaked across her cheeks.
Bawi: “I didn’t mean to—”
Me: “Don’t lie,”
I said, calmly. She swallowed hard, eyes wide
with guilt.
Bawi: “I didn’t think he’d hurt you like that—”
Me: “You knew who he was.”
She nodded, slowly.
Bawi: “And I still loved him.”
We sat in silence for a while.
Just two broken girls with the city burning
behind us. Then I reached into my coat. And
handed her the gun Zakhe gave me.
Bawi: “Why are you giving me this?” she
asked. I looked her dead in the eyes.
Me: “Because the next time they come for
us… we shoot rst.”
Bawi didn’t take the gun. She just stared at it.
As if touching it would make her complicit.
As if touching it would mean accepting that
the world we came from was never going to
be soft again.
Bawi: “I can’t…”
she whispered.
Bawi: “I’m not like you.”
I smiled, sad.
Me: “You are. You just forgot.”
I stood, pulling the gun back, slipping it
inside my waistband like second skin.
Bawi reached for my hand instead.
Bawi: “Thola…”
 she whispered, like a prayer.
Bawi: “I’m sorry I let them get to you.”
I knelt beside her again.
Me: “They didn’t get to me. They woke me.”
When I got back into Zakhe’s car, he looked at
me differently. Not like I was the girl who
needed to be shielded. But like I was
becoming something dangerous — maybe
even more dangerous than him.
Zakhe: “You’re not scared anymore,” he said.
Me: “No.”
Zakhe: was smiling.
Like a man falling in love with a woman he
couldn’t control. I stared out the window, the
streetlights painting gold on my cheeks.
Me: “Good,”
I said.
Me: “Let the whole world be scared.”
At 3 a.m., Wandi tried to call me. I watched
the phone screen light up once… twice…
six times. I didn’t answer. Instead, I messaged
her one line:
“You should’ve killed me when you had the
chance.”
Zakhe’s bedroom
He was already in bed, gun on the nightstand,
but eyes wide open — waiting for me. I
slipped beside him under the covers, my
back to his chest. His arm curled around my
waist.
Me: “Do you still think I’m soft?”
I whispered into the dark. He chuckled.
Zakhe: “Nah, baby. You’re steel now.”
I turned to face him.
Me: “Then teach me everything you know.
Because I’m not letting anyone take me again.
Not without a war.”
He kissed me. Not soft. Not slow. But like he
knew I could hurt him now, too. And still —
he opened his chest and let me in.

CHAPTER 33
Zakhe’s POV

The past doesn’t knock. It doesn’t call ahead.

It crashes through your life wearing old
names, old wounds, old sins stitched into its
chest like medals from a war you swore you
survived. Mine came wrapped in a name I
hadn’t said in years. Dabula. He was the only
man who knew where all my bodies were
buried. Because he helped me bury most of
them. I was at the car wash, surrounded by
my boys, music loud, smoke in the air, when
I saw him. Black cap. Tattoo on his neck. The
devil I used to run with. Dabula didn’t smile.
He never did. He just opened his arms and
said:
Dabula: “Ngicel’ ukhuluma nawe, ndoda.”
Let me talk to you, man. I signaled the boys
to stay back. If this went sideways, it would
be between me and the ghost. We stood
behind the containers, out of sight. He pulled
out a photo. Of me. At thirteen. Blood on my
hands. Standing over my rst kill.
Dabula: “You remember who took this?”
Dabula asked.
Me: “Your uncle,”
I muttered.
Me: “The rst man we both wanted dead.”
Dabula lit a cigarette. Blew smoke in my face.
Dabula: “Those days are coming back,
mfethu. You started a war by killing Vilakazi.
Now every man who loved him is loading
up.”
I stepped forward. Face close to his.
Me: “If they loved that monster, they can die
with his name in their mouths.”
He laughed once. Dry.
Dabula: “You think love will save you, Zakhe?
That girl got you soft.”
I pulled my gun faster than my shadow.
Pressed it against his chest.
Me: “You think this is soft?”
I hissed.
Me: “She’s the reason I haven’t burned this
whole province down.”
Dabula didn’t flinch. He just said:
Dabula: “Then maybe you’re not the
Zakhelikhaya I knew.”
Me: “And maybe that’s a good thing.”
Later that night, I couldn’t sleep.
Tholakele lay beside me, lips parted in a soft
dream. I traced her jaw with my nger.
Wondered how a girl could make a monster
like me feel like a man again. But I also knew
the truth. The past wasn’t done with me. And
when it came for blood… I’d make sure mine
wasn’t the rst to spill. I woke up before
dawn. Couldn’t shake Dabula’s voice from my
skull. Couldn’t shake the photo either. I’d
burned so many things in my life.
Bridges. Faces. Even my own name once. But
that photo? That memory? It stuck like a
blade between the ribs. I left Tholakele
asleep, soft snores curled against her pillow.
She looked like peace. And I… I looked like
war. The warehouse on the edge of eNtuzuma
was quiet. Too quiet. I pushed the door open
and walked through the rusted metal
corridors until I reached the room with all the
boxes. My past sat there in crates. Guns we
smuggled from Mozambique. Photos. Tapes.
Names. Dabula still had a key. I should’ve
changed the locks the day I left that life
behind. I grabbed the oldest box.
Labeled:
"ZULU BOYS 2009 - eShowe Bloodline"
My hands shook as I opened it. A picture of a
young me. Skinny. Angry.
Wearing my rst chain. And next to me…
Khulekani. My brother. My rst betrayal. He
was the reason I stopped trusting blood. He
was the reason I learned to kill. I heard
footsteps behind me. Didn’t even flinch. I
knew the rhythm.
Bawi.
Bawi: “Tholakele’s worried,”
she said.
Bawi: “She woke up and you were gone.”
I nodded, not looking at her.
Bawi: “She said you do this when you’re
scared,”
Bawi added softly. I turned. Met her eyes.
Me: “I’m not scared.”
I paused.
Me: “I’m preparing.”
Bawi: “For what?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
Me: “For them. All of them. Dabula.
Khulekani. Anyone who thinks I’m still that
scared little boy holding a blade for the rst
time.”
Bawi leaned against the wall, arms folded.
Bawi: “You know she’s stronger than you,
right?”
she whispered. I smiled bitterly.
Me: “She makes me weak. That’s the
problem.”
Bawi: “She makes you human. That’s the
cure.”
I burned the photos. One by one. Until the
re in that warehouse glowed like the one in
my chest. Let them come. Let the past rise. I
wasn’t the same Zakhelikhaya Zulu they left
bleeding in the dark. Now I had something to
live for. Which made me far more dangerous
than any man with nothing left to lose. The
morning light slithered through the broken
windows of the warehouse, casting jagged
shadows across the dust-covered floor. My
boots echoed in the silence, every step
reminding me that no matter how far I’d
come, the beginning was still buried under
my ngernails. I lit a cigarette. Didn’t even
want it. Just needed something to hold while
my hands itched with the weight of history. A
creak behind me. I didn’t look back.
Me: “Thought I told you to stay with her,”
I murmured. Bawi's voice answered, calm
and low,
Bawi: “She told me to come nd you.”
Of course she did.
Bawi: “She dreams when you leave, Zakhe,”
Bawi added.
Bawi: “The bad ones. The ones where her
father's alive and choking her with his voice.”
My jaw clenched. I crushed the cigarette on
the concrete and stood.
Me: “Let’s nish this.”
I tore open more boxes. Old ledgers.
Surveillance tapes. Photos marked with red
ink. Enemies. Allies. All blurred now. But then
I found it. The recording. Labeled with a
name I hadn’t spoken in years: Wandi Mkhize.
I popped the cassette into the old deck. The
voice crackled into life.
“…Tholakele will never know it was me.
Zakhe’s too blind. She trusts too easily. All it
took was a bottle, a laugh, and her secrets
came spilling…”
The air turned cold. I felt sick.
Me: “Pause it,”
I growled. Bawi did. I turned to her.
Me: “How long have you known?”
She hesitated, but only for a second. Bawi:
“Since the day Thola showed up with bruises
and still protected Wandi with her silence.”
Rage curled around my ribs like a noose. I
stormed out of the warehouse. In the back of
my mind, I heard the old voices. Khulekani
laughing. Dabula shouting. The sound of
knives. And the way silence tasted after
betraya. I walked through eMlazi like I owned
it. Because I did. Men lowered their eyes.
Doors locked as I passed. Blood remembered
me—even when people pretended to forget. I
reached Wandi’s apartment. Didn’t knock.
Kicked the door in. She screamed. I didn’t
touch her. Didn’t have to. Just played the
recording.
Loud. Her face drained of all the fake gloss
she wore. Her lies unzipped themselves and
collapsed at her feet.
Me: “You betrayed the only person who ever
loved you,”
I said, voice cold.Wandi dropped to her
knees, begging. Tears. Promises. Regrets. I
leaned down.
Me: “You’ll walk. But you’ll never run. You’ll
breathe. But every breath will taste like guilt.”
Back home, Tholakele stood outside.
Barefoot. Waiting. She always knew when my
soul was on re. I knelt before her. Took her
hand.
Me: “Everything I burn… I do for you.”
She didn’t say anything. Just pulled me up.
Held my face.
Thola: “You don’t have to ght the past alone,”
she whispered. I didn’t reply. Because for the
rst time, maybe I didn’t. I found her picture
buried under old les in my drawer. Wandi.
Laughing in a bikini with Tholakele, Bawi, and
Samu at some beach back in 2016. I
remember taking that photo. I remember
being in love with peace. That was before I
realized peace was just the silence between
gunshots. I drove out to my old
neighborhood. Not eMlazi—before that.
Where I learned how to bleed.
Where my mother used to hide the knives
from my father but forgot she was the one
sharpening them in her sleep. The house was
still there. Burnt bricks. Broken satellite. A
rusted swing set hanging from nothing. And
the whispers.
“Zakhelikhaya…”
I turned quickly. No one. The wind just calling
me by my government name, reminding me
that trauma don’t need keys—it already lives
in your bones. Back in the car, I called Bawi.
Me: “Get me the full list of everyone Wandi’s
been in contact with the last two years. I don’t
care if it’s her grandmother or her weed guy. I
want names, faces, blood types if possible.”
Bawi sighed, already typing.
Bawi: “And Tholakele?”
Me: “Sleeping.”
Bawi: “Does she know you’re going back into
that part of yourself?”
Me: “She always knew I never left.”
That night, Tholakele woke up from another
nightmare. Sweating, shaking. Eyes wild.
Thola: “She said I was cursed,”
she whispered.
Me: “Who?”
Thola: “My mom,”
she croaked.
Thola: “Slindile. Before she disappeared. She
said I’d love men who kill.”
I held her.
Me: “And yet you love me.”
She nodded slowly, almost scared to admit it.
Me: “And I’ll keep killing for you,”
I said. Not to scare her. Just to make sure
she felt safe. The past knocked again. I
answered. Wandi was at the old junkyard.
She’d been hiding under someone else's
name, using money she stole from Thola’s
inheritance. I cornered her. She cried.
Begged. Even tried to lie again.
Me: “Your tears are expired,”
I told her, gun pressed to her lip. She
whimpered,
Wandi: “Zakhe, please, I was scared…”
I lowered the gun. Because death is too easy.
And guilt? That’s the slow burn.
Me: “You’ll live. But you’ll never be safe. You’ll
flinch at every knock. You’ll never sleep in
peace again. And everywhere you turn…
you’ll see her eyes.”
Later that night, I came home smelling like
war. Tholakele ran her hand across my chest.
Thola: “Did you end it?”
Me: “No. I began it.”
She tilted her head.
Me: “You and me, Thola. We don’t walk away
from re. We become it.”

CHAPTER 34
Samukelisiwe’s POV

Nobody talks about Qiniselani anymore. Not

in public. Not in prayer.
Not even in whispers. But she was once the
girl who lit matches with her tongue, and
now—she was back. We saw her at Slindile’s
old house.
Standing in a blood-red doek, leather jacket
zipped to her throat, chewing on something
that looked like betrayal. Her hands were
behind her back like she was hiding either a
weapon or a promise. Same thing, really.
Bawi froze next to me.
Bawi: “She’s back…”
Me: “I thought she was locked,”
I breathed.
Me: “She got out. Someone paid her bail in
bullets.”
Tholakele didn’t flinch when I told her. She
just sat by the re, sharpening her nails on a
piece of glass, like she’d been expecting the
devil to come home wearing Qiniselani’s
shoes.
Thola: “She wants me?”
Tholakele said.
Thola: “Tell her I’m done begging.”
Me: “She doesn’t want you,”
I whispered.
Me: “She wants revenge.”
Thola: “For what?”
Me: “You breathing.”
Qiniselani was Vilakazi’s secret daughter. Born
from a side-chick. Trained like a soldier.
Abandoned like trash. And when Tholakele
got the inheritance? Qiniselani got rage.
Unshakable.
Undeniable.
Untouchable.
She came to the shisanyama in the middle of
groove. Guns out. No warning. Three shots
into the air. One bullet into the sound system.
Music died like a warning.
Qini: “I want my sister,”
she shouted. Everyone froze.
Qini: “I want the girl with blood in her name
and re in her shadow. Bring me Tholakele.
Or I’ll paint this place red.”
I held Bawi’s hand. My body shaking. My
heart? Praying to all ancestors, even the ones
who didn’t like me. Because Qiniselani wasn’t
just angry.
She was trained in anger. Zakhe arrived rst.
Alone.
Calm.
Death in his pockets.
Zakhe: “She’s not coming,”
he said.
Zakhe: “But I did.”
Qiniselani laughed.
Qini: “So the dog comes instead?”
Zakhe: “No,”
Zakhe smiled darkly.
Zakhe: “The grave comes early.”
The gun ght didn’t last long. Because Zakhe
doesn’t waste bullets. But Qiniselani? She
didn’t die. She disappeared—smiling,
bleeding, whispering, “This is not over.” Later
that night, Tholakele sat in silence, looking
out her window.
Thola: “She’s my blood?”
she whispered. I nodded.
Me: “And she wants it spilled.”
Tholakele smiled bitterly,
Thola: “Then let’s not waste time…”
The night air hung thick with tension, every
shadow seeming to breathe with menace.
Qiniselani’s threat wasn’t just words—it was a
promise carved in the bone-deep rage of a
daughter denied her birthright. I traced the
scar on my wrist—the one from when my
father’s hand rst tried to silence me. Now,
that scar was a map leading straight to the
war I had to ght. Zakhe’s silence beside me
was a fortress.
Me: “I know what I have to do,”
I said quietly, voice sharp as broken glass. He
nodded, eyes erce.
Zakhe: “We don’t run from blood. We run
with it.”
I gathered my guns, the familiar cold steel of
them steadying my shaking hands. I wasn’t
just a girl anymore. I was a soldier. A queen.
A storm waiting to break. Outside, the city
hummed with life unaware of the re about to
ignite. But inside me, the war was already
raging. Qiniselani’s rage was a beast—fast,
hungry, and relentless. And I? I was ready to
stare it down, with re in my eyes and bullets
in my lips. The city never really sleeps. It just
shifts—hiding secrets beneath the noise,
beneath the music, beneath the laughter at
the shisanyama. But Qiniselani’s rage was
louder than any of it. She moved like a
shadow, silent but deadly. Her footsteps
erased like smoke on the wind. And everyone
who knew her knew what she was capable of.
I caught up with Bawi outside the BP Garage,
the place where Fireboy rst found her. She
was pale, hands clenched tight around her
jacket.
Me: “They say she’s coming for Thola,”
I whispered. Bawi’s lips trembled.
Bawi: “She’s coming for all of us.”
The night Qiniselani came, the air was
electric—charged with fear and fury. The
shisanyama went quiet as she stepped in,
eyes blazing, lips pressed tight. No one dared
move. She scanned the crowd like a hawk.
Then, she spoke.
Qini: “I want the girl with re in her soul and
blood on her hands.”
Her voice wasn’t a question. It was a verdict.
Zakhelikhaya stepped forward, calm and
unshaken.
Zakhe: “You won’t nd her here,”
he said.
Zakhe: “But if you want a war, we’ll give you
one.”
The tension snapped. Gunshots rang out,
screams pierced the night. But when the dust
settled, Qiniselani was gone—leaving behind
nothing but the echo of her promise. Later,
Tholakele sat with me and Bawi, her eyes
dark but determined.
Bawi: “She’s family,”
she said quietly.
Bawi: “And family always comes back.”
We all knew what that meant. The storm was
coming. And we had to be ready.

CHAPTER 35
Thola’s POV
It’s funny how girls like me don’t wear our
danger on our sleeves—we wear it on our
lips. Cherry red. Matte. Undeniable. Like a
warning sign nobody ever bothers to read.
That night, I wasn’t dressed for war. I was
dressed to kill. Not with bullets— But with
presence. With attitude. With a beauty so loud
it made devils flinch. The dress hugged me
like a threat. My heels clicked like
countdowns. And my lip gloss? Glossy like
blood freshly spilled. I wasn’t going to hide
from Qiniselani. No. I was going to shine so
bright she’d have to squint just to hate me.
Zakhelikhaya watched me from the doorway
of his car, arms folded, jaw tight.
Zakhe: “You’re going out like that?” he asked.
I smiled.
Me: “She thinks I’m afraid.”
Zakhe: “You are,”
he said softly.
Zakhe: “But you’re also reckless.”
I leaned in, kissed his cheek, and whispered,
Me: “Red flags are my favourite colour.”
The club in eMkhumbane was packed.
Bass pulsed through the walls, smoke curled
around the lights, and everyone turned when
I walked in. Because even if you didn’t know
my name, my aura slapped. I spotted Wandi
in the corner. Sipping from a glass like her
betrayal didn’t stain her breath. She saw me,
went pale, and dropped the glass. I walked
straight up, slow, controlled, a quiet fury in
heels.
Me: “Miss me?”
I said. She didn’t answer. So I slapped the
glossed truth across her face. That’s when the
rst shot went off. Someone screamed.
People scattered like roaches. But I didn’t
move. Zakhe had told me once,
“You’ll never see the bullet with your name on
it. But you’ll feel the silence before it comes.”
And that silence hit me now. I turned— And
there she was. Qiniselani. No makeup. No
disguise.
Just rage in human form.
Qini: “You wear war like perfume,”
she hissed.
Qini: “But you forget…I trained you.”
I smiled, blood in my teeth.
Me: “And you forget,”
I whispered, cocking the pistol from my
thigh holster,
Me: “I outgrew you the day I stopped asking
for permission.”

Red flags were waving. But this time, I wasn’t

backing down. The music was chaos, bass
ghting the sirens in my chest, but all I could
hear was the sound of betrayal breathing in
front of me. Wandi had always been the soft
one. The giggler. The cousin with edges laid
and loyalty wrapped in pink ribbons.
But tonight, she stood behind Qiniselani like
a shadow that chose its storm. I took a step
closer, the heels slicing through glass and
judgement.
Me: “You were blood,”
I said to Wandi.
Me: “You let her twist you.”
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Me: “You chose power,”
I continued.
Me: “And now you’re standing in front of a
girl who’s got nothing left to lose.”
Zakhe was somewhere outside, clearing
paths, flipping phone calls, making sure none
of this touched eTholeni. But here, inside this
club?
This was my battleground. Qiniselani tilted
her head, smile slow and venomous.
Qini: “Look at you,”
she said, voice like smoke.
Qini: “Pretty little threat. I should’ve killed you
when I had the chance.”
I licked my lips. The gloss still held.
Me: “You did,”
I said.
Me: “But I came back for revenge.”
She moved rst. Not physically—spiritually.
Her presence lled the room like smoke
choking re. And Wandi? Wandi’s hand
twitched to the side of her thigh. My gaze
dropped—
She was carrying. Just like I thought. I didn’t
scream. Didn’t panic. Didn’t blink. I moved.
Fast. Sharp. With the speed of a woman
who’d watched her mother cry blood, her
father die in dust, and her name be written in
fear across buildings.
The shot went off. But it wasn’t mine. Glass
shattered. Someone screamed my name.
Qiniselani dropped behind the speaker stack,
pulling Wandi with her. My bullet scraped the
side of her shoulder—enough to remind her I
wasn’t some shy girl with a pretty face and
dead dreams. I was Tholakele Vilakazi. The
girl who turned red flags into weapons.

The club emptied, but I walked out like the

queen I was. Body buzzing.
Heart steel. Zakhe met me outside, jaw
clenched, gun holstered.
Zakhe: “You alright?”
he asked, grabbing my wrist, scanning my
body. I nodded, hair wild, lip gloss smeared
like war paint.
,Me: “She won’t forget me again.”
He exhaled hard.
Zakhe: “What did you say to her?”
I smiled, sliding into the passenger seat.
Me: “I told her,”
I whispered, eyes xed on the bleeding
moon—
Me: “Red isn’t just a colour. It’s a warning.
And she should’ve read me carefully.”

The lights of the club flickered, casting a red

hue on everything—like the universe was
bleeding for me.
I stood in the bathroom mirror, hands
trembling but lips perfect. Cherry red gloss,
smooth as glass. The same one Zakhe kissed
off me two nights ago. The one he said tasted
like danger. I didn’t trust the mirror, though. I
hadn’t trusted reflections since the day I
watched my father fall in one. Behind me, the
stall creaked open.
Wandi: “Your lip gloss still popping, neh?”
Wandi’s voice slithered into the space like
perfume—sweet, sickening. I turned slowly,
catching her reflection next to mine.
Wandi: “She said I’d nd you here,” Wandi
added.
Wandi: “Said you'd come dressed like blood
and breathing smoke.”
Me: “Is that what I am now?”
I asked, stepping closer.
Me: “A warning?”
She didn’t flinch.
Wandi: “You were always a warning, Thola.
We just never listened.”
The silence thickened, pressing against my
chest like regret.
Me: “Why, Wandi?”
I whispered.
Me: “We were raised like sisters.”
She shrugged, eyes glossy.
Wandi: “And now we’re raised to survive.”
The stall behind her opened again.
Samukelisiwe. My heart twisted. Not Bawi.
Not her. But Bawi never came. Only Samke.
Her lips bare. Her eyes cold.
Me: “Where’s Bawi?”
I asked sharply.
Wandi: “She chose you,”
Wandi said, as if that explained everything.
Wandi: “We didn’t.”
I stepped back. Samke raised her dress
slightly, pulling a tiny silver pistol from her
thigh holster.
Samke: “She’s not supposed to leave here
alive,”
Samke murmured to Wandi. I laughed—low,
dangerous, almost manic.
Me: “You brought a toy to kill me?”
I stepped forward, lips parted, heart wild.
Me: “You think bullets can stop prophecy?”
They blinked. And in that blink, I pulled the
blade from my boot. It gleamed under the
cheap bathroom light.
Me: “This lip gloss?”
I said, smiling wide.
Me: “It’s the last thing traitors see before they
bleed.”
I lunged. The knife cut through the air,
missing Samke by inches as she red—The
bullet grazed my shoulder. Wandi screamed. I
grabbed Samke by the wrist, slammed her
against the wall. The gun clattered into the
sink.
Wandi ran. Samke clawed at my face, but I
pressed the blade to her neck.
Me: “You’re lucky I have mercy left,” I
whispered.
Me: “But not for long.”
She cried. I let her go. I walked out of that
bathroom like re personi ed. Blood on my
sleeve. Lip gloss still shining. And rage in my
heels. Zakhe waited outside the club, leaning
against his car, eyes storm-dark. He looked
me up and down, jaw ticking.
Zakhe: “Are you okay?”
he asked, voice low. I nodded.
Me: “She tried to shoot me.”
Zakhe: “Samke?”
His voice sharpened. I nodded again.
Me: “Wandi was with her. Bawi wasn’t.”
He pulled me into his arms so tight my ribs
ached.
Zakhe: “They’re going to learn,”
he muttered into my hair.
Zakhe: “You don’t touch what’s mine.”
I looked up at him, kissed him, slow and
unbothered. The blood on my sleeve drying
into rust. And when I pulled away, I smiled
and whispered—
Me: “Red flags? Baby, I wear them like lip
gloss.”

CHAPTER 36
Zakhe’s POV
The small church at the top of the hill in
uMlazi still smelled like burnt wax and
desperate prayers. Wooden pews. White lace
altar cloths. A cracked photo of Jesus with
tears that looked a little too real. Tholakele sat
at the front, her head bowed in silence, a
scarf hiding the wound on her shoulder. I
stood at the back. Watching. Breathing. Trying
not to let my rage unravel at the seams.
Because I knew this place.
I knew it as a boy. I prayed here once,
begging for my mother’s life. She died the
next day. That’s when I stopped believing.
Until Tholakele.
Until she walked into my chaos and gave it a
heartbeat. And now they were trying to kill
her. The wooden door creaked. Two men
entered. Smooth. Clean. One even took his
shoes off at the entrance like he respected
the Lord. But I wasn’t fooled. They weren’t
here for God. They were here for war. I
moved quietly, reaching beneath my leather
jacket. My Glock greeted my palm like an old
friend. I didn’t move yet. I watched. The men
didn’t see me. They were focused on
Tholakele—kneeling, praying, bleeding grace.
Cowards. One of them cocked his gun under
his coat. I red rst.
Boom.
His shoulder exploded with red. He screamed
and fell sideways into the pews. The other
turned too slow.
Boom.
A bullet to the thigh dropped him. The church
screamed to life with echoes. Tholakele didn’t
move.
She kept praying. I walked to the front,
kicking the rst man’s gun away.
Me: “Who sent you?”
I asked coldly.
Man2: “Wandi,”
the second one spat.
Man2: “She said—”
Boom.
I didn’t let him nish. Not in a church. But I
didn’t aim to kill. Just to remind. Tholakele
nally looked up, her eyes dry.
Me: “You okay?”
I asked. She nodded once, lips trembling.
Thola: “She said no place was sacred
anymore,”
Tholakele whispered.
Thola: “Not even this one.”
I pulled her up gently. Held her hand like it
was breakable.
Me: “I’m not sacred either,”
I said.
Me: “But I will burn this whole province down
for you.”
We walked out of the church together, past
the blood, the prayers, and the ghosts. The
sun was setting, throwing gold on everything.
And for the rst time in a long time, I wanted
to kneel beside her—not to ask, not to beg.
But to thank God. For giving me a woman
worth killing for. And dying for.
Thola’s POV
My ears rang long after the last shot was
red. The smell of gunpowder clung to the
wooden walls like sin that couldn’t be washed
away. I sat frozen at the altar, still on my
knees, my ngers interlocked in prayer—
except I wasn't praying anymore. I was
listening.For Zakhe’s footsteps.
For his breathing. For con rmation that I
wasn’t the one bleeding this time.
Zakhe: “Thola,”
his voice broke through the silence. I blinked
and turned slowly.He stood over the two men
like a soldier of vengeance. One of them
whimpered beneath a pool of blood. The
other? Still. Silent. Probably dead. Zakhe
didn’t care. His eyes were still looking for
more danger. Like God Himself might betray
me next. He helped me up, and I let him. My
legs felt weak, my shoulder aching beneath
the bandages. But I was done running. Done
hiding. I looked at the blood pooling on the
floor between the pews.
Me: “I used to come here with my mother,”
I said softly.
Me: “When I was a little girl, I believed if I
cried loud enough, heaven would open.”
Zakhe didn’t speak. Just held me tighter.
Me: “I stopped praying when my father
started locking me in the house like I was his
shame.”
He clenched his jaw, his knuckles turning
white against the gun still in his hand.
Zakhe: “We’re not safe here anymore,”
he said.
Zakhe: “Wandi sent them. She’s out for
blood.”
Me: “My cousin,”
I whispered bitterly.
Me: “She wants what I have.”
Zakhe: “She wants what you are,” Zakhe
corrected.
Zakhe: “And that? That’s untouchable.”
We moved quickly after that. The community
would ask questions. They’d whisper. But
they’d never say anything out loud—not
about Zakhelikhaya Zulu. Not when he could
bring a storm with a blink. Outside, the wind
picked up. Leaves scattered like messengers
sent from the trees to warn the world. I
looked up at him.
Me: “You could’ve killed them both.”
Zakhe: “I did,”
he said.
Zakhe: “One just doesn’t know it yet.”

We drove away from the prayer room with no

psalms left in our throats. Only revenge
humming under our skin. He reached for my
hand as he drove.
I didn’t pull away.
Quote written on the chapel gate in blood
(later that night):
"Even your God couldn't protect you. – Z.Z"

Zakhe’s POV
I don’t pray. But I was in the house of
someone’s God, holding the hand of
someone I’d kill the world for, while blood
soaked through someone else’s prayers on
the floor. There was no holiness here. Only
rage. Only survival. The bastards thought they
could follow her here. Into a place where she
came to cry, not ght. They didn’t know I was
close. They didn’t know who she belonged to.
They do now. I shot rst. No hesitation.
The bullet caught the rst one clean between
the ribs, dropped him like nothing. The
second one begged—said something about
Wandi, about it “not being personal.” Funny.
That’s what people say when they shoot at
love like it’s a target. When they point
weapons at my peace. At Tholakele.
She was on her knees when I found her. Not
bleeding. Not broken. Just—
Still. Like the rage inside her was hiding
behind her lashes. I didn’t ask if she was
okay. I already knew the answer. She stood
beside me. Bloody floor. Cross behind us.
Two bodies cooling. And the re inside us,
burning brighter than ever. As we walked out
the front doors, I pulled my phone from my
pocket and made the call.
Me: “Make it loud,”
I told my guy.
Me: “They touched the prayer room.”
He knew what that meant. A war cry
disguised as a whisper. Back at the car, she
leaned her head on the window.
Thola: “I don’t want to live scared anymore,
Zakhe,”
she said. I placed my hand on her thigh.
Me: “You won’t,”
I promised.
Me: “But they will.”

That night, I returned alone. To the chapel. To

the blood that hadn’t even dried yet. I dipped
my ngers in the warm mess, dragging them
across the wooden doors. Big. Red. Words.
“YOU PRAYED TOO LATE. – Z.Z.”
Let them feel what I felt when I thought I’d
lost her. Let every sinner who dared raise
their hand to her know: I don’t forgive. I bury.

CHAPTER 37
Thola’s POV
I knew he was trouble the second I stepped
into that meeting.
The way he looked at me like he already
owned parts of my story.
Like he’d read chapters I hadn’t even written
yet. He was dressed in danger — a double-
breasted suit clinging to his big body like sin
in silk. Gold chain. Cigarette in hand. And a
wedding ring. Shining bold like a warning
sign. Lwazi Mkhize. Boss of the
Pietermaritzburg taxi rank. Feared.
Worshipped. Married.
Lwazi: “Tholakele Vilakazi,”
he said, like my name tasted expensive.
Lwazi: “Finally, the queen herself.”
Zakhelikhaya wasn’t there. He had to handle
something in Durban North. Something about
the bodies we left behind. So I came alone.
Stupid. Lwazi walked too close. Spoke too
smooth.
Lwazi: “I hear your man is re,”
he said, eyes all over me.
Lwaz: “But even re runs out of oxygen
sometimes.”
I smirked.
Me: “And you’re the oxygen?”
Lwazi: “I could be. For the right price.”
I stepped back.
Me: “I’m not for sale.”
He laughed.
Lwazi: “Everyone’s for sale. Even if they don’t
know it yet.”

By the time I left the rank, I knew one thing:

This man wanted more than power. He
wanted me—as a trophy, as revenge against
Zakhe, or maybe as proof he could take
anything. But I wasn’t his. And I never would
be. That night, Zakhe pulled me onto his lap,
kissed the side of my neck, and asked how it
went.
I paused.
Me: “He wants war,”
I whispered. Zakhe’s eyes went dark.
Zakhe: “Then we give him a funeral.”

Zakhelikhaya paced. His white vest clung to

him, sweat trailing down his temple. He was
breathing like a bull ready to charge. I had
just told him everything Lwazi Mkhize said at
the rank.
Zakhe: “He said what?”
Zakhe growled, clenching his sts.
Me: “That I’d be his. That even re runs out of
oxygen.”
He chuckled, low and dangerous. Zakhe:
“Ngifunge ngo mama, I will make that man
choke on his own words.”
I touched his arm gently.
Me: “Zakhe… we need to be smart. If you kill
him now, it’s war in all the provinces.”
Zakhe: “He threatened you. That’s already
war.”
Later that night, we sat in the backroom of
Khabazela's tavern — our usual spot for
underground meetings. Fireboys from eMlazi,
Clermont, and KwaMashu were gathered.
Every man armed. Every heart loyal to Zakhe.
Bheka: “What’s the move, grootman?”
Bheka asked, loading his gun with gold-
tipped bullets. Zakhe lit a cigarette slowly,
exhaling through his nose. Then calmly, he
said:
Zakhe: “We don’t touch his life. We take his
empire rst.”
The plan was simple. Humiliation before
elimination. We’d intercept his taxis, reroute
his passengers, hack his e-hailing
connections, make his drivers disappear one
by one — not killed, just missing. Every day,
a new crack in his foundation. And while
Lwazi scrambled to hold his kingdom
together, I’d rise. Not just as Zakhe’s woman.
As Tholakele Vilakazi — the one no married
man could play with and live. A week later, I
walked into Lwazi’s own shisanyama. I wore a
red bodycon dress and black heels that made
the floor tap like thunder. Bawi and
Samukelisiwe flanked me like shadows. The
whole place froze. Lwazi stood up from his
corner booth, grinning like he’d won. Until I
leaned in, whispered into his ear, and said,
Me: “Your rank. Your drivers. Your routes.
They’re mine now.”
Then I smiled, kissed the air near his cheek
— and walked away. Leaving him speechless.
Powerless.
Burning. Back in Zakhe’s arms that night, I
whispered,
Me: “I didn’t need to shoot him. I burned him
with heels.”
He smiled, pressing his lips to my forehead.
Zakhe: “That’s why I fear you more than
death.”
Lwazi’s presence lingered like smoke long
after I left his of ce. His words clawed at my
skin—smooth threats wrapped in silk,
promises edged with danger. I could feel his
eyes on me even from the parking lot,
burning a warning into my back.Zakhelikhaya
was right. This man wasn’t just a rival. He was
a storm. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every
sound outside my window sounded like
footsteps—like spies sent by Lwazi to watch,
to wait. I traced the scar on my shoulder—the
one from the club shooting. Zakhe’s hands
had been steady when he bandaged me, but
now I wondered if his grip could hold back
what was coming. The next day, Bawi showed
up with news that made my blood run cold.
Bawi: “Lwazi’s been making moves,” she said,
voice low.
Bawi: “Taking over taxi routes. Getting closer
to Zakhe’s crew.”
I clenched my sts. They were trying to
choke us out. That afternoon, I went to see
Zakhe. He was waiting at the shisanyama,
eyes dark as storm clouds.
Zakhe: “We’re at war,”
he said quietly.
Me: “But we’re not done ghting,”
I replied. He pulled me close, lips brushing
my ear.
Zakhe: “Good. Because I want you standing
by my side when we burn it all down.”

The married taxi boss didn’t know what hit

him. And neither did I.

CHAPTER 38
The sun dipped low behind the hills, casting
long shadows over Gogo Ntombi kile’s
homestead. The air smelled of burning wood
and wild sage—a scent that always brought
both comfort and unease. Gogo sat outside
her rondavel, weaving grass into a basket
with hands that trembled like ancient leaves.
Her eyes, sharp and clear, xed on me as I
approached.
Ntombi: “You come with re in your heart,
Tholakele Vilakazi,”
she said, voice cracking but strong.
Ntombi: “But re without direction burns
everything—including the one who holds it.”
I sat beside her, silent. She smiled knowingly.
Ntombi: “The blood you carry is heavy. The
blood of kings and warriors. But also the
blood of curses and broken promises.”
Gogo’s hands paused. She looked me deep in
the eyes.
Ntombi: “The night the blood ran across the
walls—”
she said, nodding toward the village, Ntombi:
“—was the night the old spirits awoke.
Zakhelikhaya’s path is marked by re and
shadow. But yours is marked by the blood of
your ancestors, calling you to lead.”
My breath caught.
Ntombi: “I see a crown of flames,” she
continued,
Ntombi: “but also a choice. To rise with the
re… or to be consumed by it.”
I swallowed hard.
Me: “Is there a way to stop it?”
Gogo laughed softly, a sound like wind
through dry grass.
Ntombi: “Only if you listen—to the whispers,
to the past, and to the quiet voice inside you.”
That night, as I lay under the starlit sky, her
words echoed louder than the distant drums.
The war was coming. But maybe, just maybe,
there was a way to win without losing myself
in the flames.
Ntombi: “I saw your father,”
Gogo Ntombi kile said suddenly. Her ngers
stopped weaving.
Ntombi: “Before he died.”
My chest tightened. I didn’t respond, afraid of
what she’d say next.
Ntombi: “He was a man swallowed by his
sins. And yet… he asked about you.”
My eyes burned.
Me: “He hated me.”
Ntombi: “No,”
Gogo said rmly,
Ntombi: “he feared you. Because he knew the
legacy in your veins. He tried to kill you
because he saw your future. And it terri ed
him.”
She slowly stood up, her back cracking, her
frame still regal despite the years.
Ntombi: “I have something for you,” she said,
disappearing into her rondavel. When she
returned, she held a small bundle wrapped in
old cloth. She handed it to me. Inside was a
beaded necklace, black, red and white.
Powerful colors. Blood. Protection. Truth.
Ntombi: “This belonged to your great-
grandmother,”
she said.
Ntombi: “Ngqolwana. She was the last woman
to hold real power in your bloodline. A
spiritual warrior. A re speaker.”
I clutched the necklace. My ngers tingled as
if it had a pulse.
Ntombi: “She used her gift to burn away lies,”
Gogo whispered.
Ntombi: “You must do the same.”
Me: “I’m not like her,”
I said quietly.
Me: “I don’t even know how to—”
Ntombi: “You do,”
Gogo interrupted.
Ntombi: “You were born knowing. You’ve just
forgotten.”
She walked slowly back to her stool, then
turned back to me.
Ntombi: “When the moon turns red over
eMlazi, you will be tested. The ancestors will
speak. And you must choose: love or
vengeance. Power or peace. Zakhelikhaya or
yourself.”
I stared at her, trembling.
Me: “What if I want both?”
Gogo gave a sad smile.
Ntombi: “You cannot hold a gun and a baby
at the same time, Tholakele. One will always
fall.”
That night, I sat alone in the dark with the
necklace around my neck, Gogo’s words
circling like vultures in my mind. I was no
longer just Tholakele Vilakazi. I was
Ngqolwana’s blood. And destiny was
sharpening its claws.
Ntombi: “Usuzovuka ezinsukwini ezintathu,”
she murmured in Zulu, stroking the beads
on my necklace.
Ntombi: “But not as the same girl.”
I watched her, frozen. Her hut was dimly lit by
a paraf n lamp, shadows dancing across the
cracked mud walls. It smelled of snuff, ash,
and something older—ancestral. Gogo
Ntombi kile was not a sangoma you went to
for luck charms or lotto numbers. She was
the kind you visited when your spirit was
unraveling. And mine was hanging by a
thread.
Ntombi: “Your man,”
she began, voice low and thunder-thick,
Ntombi: “Zakhelikhaya. His blood has spilled
before. It will spill again.”
My breath caught.
Me: “What are you saying?”
She raised her milky eyes to me.
Ntombi: “He carries re, child. But you... you
carry the storm.”
A cold breeze blew in from the window,
flickering the flame. She motioned for me to
sit across from her. On a mat of dried reeds,
she laid out bones. Real ones—knuckles, rib
fragments, a tooth. Each one laced with red
string. She tossed them like dice, then
inhaled deeply. Her face changed. Her lips
trembled.
Ntombi: “They’re coming for him,”
she said flatly.
Ntombi: “From within his own circle. A
brother. Not of blood... but of war.”
I felt my stomach drop.
Me: “One of the Avanza crew?”
She nodded.
Ntombi: “One who smiles too easily. The one
who never speaks in full truths.”
I thought of Sizwe. Of how he always called
me sis with that sly grin.
Ntombi: “You must choose, Tholakele. To
warn him is to bind your fate to his. To stay
silent is to protect your power.”
I blinked.
Me: “Power?”
Gogo Ntombi kile leaned in so close I could
see every wrinkle etched into her skin like the
rings of an old tree. Ntombi: “You were born
in re. Named in war. Your ancestors do not
want you to be loved,”
she hissed.
Ntombi: “They want you to lead.”
I felt something shift in my chest—like a
locked door creaking open.
Me: “But what if I want both?”
I whispered again. She just stared.
Ntombi: “Then may the gods have mercy on
you.”
I left her hut just as dawn touched the hills.
Zakhe’s name burned in my throat like his
bullets had in the past. But this time… The
target wasn’t him. It was us. And love, as
Gogo Ntombi kile warned, wouldn’t be
enough.

CHAPTER 39
Zakhe’s POV
The streets of KwaMashu still bowed when I
passed through. But not like before. Not with
reverence.
Now, they looked at me with something
closer to fear. Or maybe pity. Either way, I
didn’t care. Not with her name burned across
every building. Not with her scent still sitting
on my clothes. Not with her silence ever
since the prophecy. I sat at my usual spot
outside the shisanyama, chain heavy on my
neck, gold tooth glinting as I chewed slowly.
That gold tooth wasn’t just for show. It was
the one my uncle gave me the night he died
in my arms. It reminded me to chew slow. To
move slower. To never trust too fast. That
same tooth had gritted in grief when I rst
saw Tholakele. It had smiled when she nally
touched me without fear. And now… it
clenched. Because something was wrong.
Sizwe pulled up in the Avanza, playing
Amapiano like we weren’t at war. He jumped
out, hoodie on, face half lit by the sunset.
Sizwe: “Zakhe, s’yahamba eManguzi tonight.
Goods coming in,”
he said casually. But his eyes avoided mine.
That was all I needed.
Me: “You ever think about turning on me?”
I asked, still chewing, still smiling. He
paused.
Sizwe: “What?”
I spat the bone from my mouth.
Me: “I said... if you were me, would you trust
someone who avoids eye contact when
talking?”
Sizwe’s hand twitched. I noticed.
I always noticed. He smiled.
Sizwe: “Ngiyazama ukukuhlala eduze, bhuti.
But things have changed, neh?”
I stood, wiping my hands slowly, then walked
toward him. Close enough to smell the mint
on his breath. Close enough to feel how his
heartbeat quickened I flashed that gold tooth
when I smiled.
Me: “I know about your deal with Skhova. I
know about the drop you didn’t tell me about.
I know everything, mfethu.”
His face dropped. I pulled him close, hand
behind his neck.
Me: “You forgot something, Sizwe,”
I whispered.
Me: “Even the devil fears what I love.”
Then I kissed my gold tooth against his
cheek……and stepped back just as Bawi
dragged him behind the van. Blood splattered
on the gravel. I didn’t flinch. Not this time.
Later that night, I stood by the ocean in
eThekwini, waves crashing, stars overhead.
The wind blew hard, tugging at my shirt. I
touched my tooth again. The one that
reminded me who I was. Not just a killer. Not
just a boss. But a man who once smiled wide
enough for a girl named Tholakele to believe
in softness. But softness doesn’t survive in
our world.
And the next war had already started. And
this time, the bullet had my name on it. Later
that night, I was in the backroom of Gogo
Ntombi kile’s house in uMlazi.
Not many knew I still came here. She was the
only one who ever looked me in the eye like I
was human. Even when I wasn’t. She had a
re going. Incense burning like secrets. And
that same look in her eye—like she could see
beyond the man, into the mess beneath.
Ntombi: “Sit,”
she said, her voice low and ancient. I
dropped to the mat without a word.
Ntombi: “You’re losing parts of yourself,
Zakhelikhaya. Piece by piece.”
She handed me a small, cracked mirror.
Ntombi: “Look.”
I looked. My face was harder. Eyes heavier.
The gold tooth catching the relight like a
warning.
Ntombi: “You want to protect her,” she
whispered.
Ntombi: “You want revenge.”
Ntombi: “You want peace.”
Ntombi: “You want blood.”
Ntombi: “Which one is it?”
I didn’t answer. Because I wanted all of it.
Ntombi: “Slindile’s spirit hasn’t left,” Gogo
murmured.
Ntombi: “She’s watching. Guiding. And she’s
angry.”
That made me look up.
Ntombi: “She says Wandi is near. And she’s
not nished.”
I stood slowly.
Me: “Where is she?”
Gogo shook her head.
Ntombi: “You won’t nd her the way you are
now.”
Me: “Then change me.”
Ntombi: “You’ve already been changed,
Zakhe. You just don’t know it yet.”
Back in the car, I stared at my reflection in the
rearview mirror. I touched the gold tooth
again, jaw clenched. It had been my armour.
My memory. My warning. But now it was
something else. It was a target. Everyone
wanted to hit the man with the gold tooth.
Everyone wanted the crown, the title, the girl.
They could try. But they’d die trying. As I
drove past KwaMashu’s walls, the murals still
stood.
Tholakele in red.
Tholakele in gold.
Tholakele above flames.
She wasn’t just mine. She was prophecy now.
And I’d burn the province down before I let
anyone touch her again. The rain came down
like bullets. Each drop hitting the roof of my
car felt like a war drum — reminding me of
everything I’d survived. Reminding me why I
couldn’t stop now. I sat parked outside the
building I bought in her name. Tholakele
Towers — written in thick black graf ti above
the entrance. It used to be the old drug den I
cleaned out. Now? It was hers.
Everything was. I gripped the steering wheel,
my gold tooth biting light with each grind of
my jaw.
“Uzakufa for her,”
I murmured to myself.
“Ngiyaz’ ukuthi uzofa ngomuntu omthandayo.”
Because the truth was — I didn’t put this
tooth in my mouth to shine.
I put it in to remember the day I killed my
father. The day I became him. And the day I
swore I’d never become him. But love
changes a man.
So does rage. Inside the building, my boys
were waiting. Mash, Fireboy, Bandile. All of
them armed, amped, and loyal.
Me: “News from eMlazi?”
I asked.
Mash shook his head.
Mash: “Wandi’s moving with underground
guys now. The old ones. The ones who
remember you before the gold tooth.”
I smiled slowly.
Me: “Then they remember why they feared
me.”
Bawi stormed in behind them.
Her face was wild with tears, her phone in
hand.
Bawi: “It’s Samukelisiwe,”
she breathed.
Bawi: “She’s missing. Again.”
I looked at the phone. A voice note played in
the background. A woman’s voice.
“I saw her. They took her into the same
house... The same one where Slindile once
went.”
My blood turned to steel. My gold tooth
glinted like a blade unsheathed. I turned to
Fireboy.
Me: “Get the cars. Load the bags. We roll out
in ten.”
He nodded, already running. Bawi grabbed
my arm.
Bawi: “What if it’s a trap?”
I leaned in close, kissed her forehead like a
brother.
Me: “Trap or not, I end it tonight. For
Tholakele. For Slindile. For me.”
Outside, thunder rolled like footsteps of
ancestors. My gold tooth flashed with every
lightning strike. I wasn’t a gangster anymore. I
was a storm. And someone just dared to
touch what was mine.

CHAPTER 40
Thola’s POV

I threw the glass. It missed his head by

inches and shattered against the far wall of
our bedroom — the same wall he had me
pressed against a week ago, whispering that I
was his entire world.
Me: “Ungangiqhathanisi naye, Zakhelikhaya!”
I shouted.
Me: “Don’t you dare compare me to her!”
He stood there, gold tooth gleaming, shirt
open, chest heaving like a man pulled out of
re.
Zakhe: “I wasn’t comparing, Thola! I’m telling
you she showed up at my of ce uninvited.
Talking like we still something. Like you not
sleeping in my bed, wearing my surname!”
Me: “Oh, now I’m just your bed and your
name?”
I hissed.
Me: “You think I don’t know what kind of love
you and Phindile had? That shit leaves
shadows!”
He walked closer.
Zakhe: “Don’t start, Thola…”
His voice dropped.
Zakhe: “Don’t start with Phindile.”
I shoved him.
Me: “You think I’m scared of her? Let her try
me, Zakhe. Let her step near you again. I’ll
remind her who owns your soul now.”
His eyes darkened.
Zakhe: “You don’t get to talk about owning
souls when you hide yours from me, week in,
week out. Always ghting. Always testing me.
Always pushing.”
Me: “Because you let her in!”
Zakhe: “You think I want her back?”
A beat of silence. Then—
Zakhe: “I want you.”
His voice was a thunderclap in the storm. He
closed the distance and grabbed my waist
roughly, eyes locked on mine, fury swimming
in them — and something else. Hunger.
Zakhe: “I want you angry. I want you loud. I
want you jealous. Because it means you still
care.”
I gasped as his lips crashed into mine,
devouring every breath. I hit his chest, not to
stop him, but to feel him — all of him. His
hands slid down my thighs, lifted me like I
weighed nothing. My back hit the same wall
I’d screamed at him from. Now I moaned his
name against it.
Me: “Zakhe…”
Zakhe: “Ungowami,”
he whispered.
Zakhe: “Ngiyakuthanda…”
He peeled off my dress slowly, each fabric
drop like a vow being broken and rewritten
with his mouth. My legs wrapped around
him, his belt hit the floor. Our bodies moved
like a war and a worship. A battle between
anger and love. A ceremony between pain
and healing. And when I came undone
beneath him — ngers buried in his hair,
voice trembling — I didn’t just call out his
name. I claimed it.
Me: “Zakhelikhaya,”
I whispered.
Me: “My man. My gangster. My home.”

ZAKHE’S POV
Later, as she lay on my chest, breathing soft
and slow… My phone buzzed. Unknown
number. One message.
"I see you’re still good at lying, Zakhe. But I’m
back now. And this time, I’m not leaving
without a piece of you."
— Phindile.
I stared at the screen. Then turned it over.
And held my woman closer. But I knew...
Phindile was a storm. And she was already
inside the gates.
Thola’s POV
The rain had started again. I could hear it
tapping gently against the windows as Zakhe
held me. His arms were wrapped tightly
around my waist, his thumb tracing lazy
circles on my bare back, his breathing
calm… steady. But mine wasn’t. Not entirely.
Because the way he touched me now… it felt
like a goodbye. Like he was holding me just
in case he couldn't tomorrow.
Zakhe: "She’s not a threat to you,"
he murmured.
Me: "She shouldn’t even be a thought,"
I replied quietly.
Me: "But she is…"
He lifted his head. His gold tooth caught the
soft bedroom light when he half-smiled.
Zakhe: “Thola…”
Me: “No,”
I sat up slightly, the bedsheet slipping off my
shoulder.
Me: “I know women like her, Zakhe. She
didn’t come back to say hi. She came to make
me feel small.”
Zakhe: “You?”
He laughed once, dry and dangerous.
Zakhe: “You could never be small. You walk
into a room and kingdoms kneel.”
I hated how his words made my heart soften.
Because the truth still echoed in my mind.
Phindile was back. And women like her don’t
return unless they smell blood in the water.

PHINDILE’S POV
Me: “Nice of ce,”
I said, running my ngers across Zakhe’s
desk even though he wasn’t there.
Me: “Still smells like leather and lies.”
Bawi stood across from me, arms folded, face
unreadable.
Bawi: “I don’t know what game you’re
playing,”
she said, her tone low.
Bawi: “But if you’ve come back here to ruin
things, let me warn you — Zakhelikhaya Zulu
doesn’t belong to you.”
I smirked, unbothered.
Me: “Neither did he belong to the ve women
before me… but he still ended up in my
bed.”
Bawi didn’t flinch. She simply took a step
forward and leaned in close.
Bawi: “He didn’t end up in your heart. That’s
where Tholakele lives. And if you even think
of hurting her, I promise you — you’ll meet
bullets before you meet regret.”
I laughed, a quiet, cruel laugh.
Me: “Oh, sweetheart… I don’t do regret. I am
regret.”
Then I walked out of Zakhe’s of ce, my heels
clicking like threats.
ZAKHE’S POV
I found her. Standing under the same BP
Garage lights where I rst saw Tholakele
months ago. The same place I decided no
woman would ever hold my attention again
— until her. Now here Phindile stood. Red
lipstick like a warning. Body still made of
temptations and trouble.
Phindi: “Zakhelikhaya,”
she said like a song I hated but still knew the
words to.
Phindi: “Your eyes say you missed me.”
Me: “My eyes lie,”
I replied coldly.
Phindi: “But my hands tell the truth. And
they’re not reaching for you.”
She tilted her head, smiled… and then said
the thing that cracked everything.
Phindi: “Then tell Tholakele the truth about
your son. The one I had, remember?”
My heart stopped. She stepped closer,
whispered:
Phindi: “You buried the past. But darling…
I’m still alive. And so is he.”

Thola’s POV
The night still hung heavy around us, but the
storm inside the room had nally calmed.
Zakhelikhaya’s hands trembled just slightly as
he traced lazy patterns on my back, his breath
warm against my ear.
Zakhe: “Ngiyaxolisa,”
he whispered.
Zakhe: “For making you doubt. For letting
her shadow come between us.”
I turned in his arms, ngers tangling in his
hair.
Me: “Don’t apologize for surviving your past,”
I said softly.
Me: “But promise me this—no secrets. No
ghosts that will haunt us.”
His gold tooth flashed in a crooked smile.
Zakhe: “No more ghosts,”
he promised. The phone buzzed again — a
message from an unknown number.
“I’m closer than you think.”
Phindile’s words. The past wasn’t done with
us yet. But for now… I let myself melt into
Zakhe’s arms, holding onto the fragile peace
between us. Because tomorrow, the war
would start again.

CHAPTER 41

The morning sun spilled through the cracked

window, painting the room gold. I sat on the
edge of the bed, heart hammering in my
chest, hands trembling as I held the small
plastic stick with two pink lines glowing back
at me. I was carrying his child. My breath
caught — a mix of fear, hope, and an
overwhelming wave of love. Zakhelikhaya was
in the kitchen, humming softly as he made
coffee. I stood quietly, clutching the test
behind my back, unsure how to tell him.
When he turned, our eyes met — and
something shifted.
Zakhe: “Thola?”
His voice was gentle but curious. I
swallowed hard.
Me: “I’m pregnant.”
His eyes widened. For a moment, the
gangster, the kingpin, the man who had faced
death a thousand times, was just… a man.
Then he smiled, slow and wide — the kind of
smile that promised protection and forever.
Zakhe: “We’re going to be alright,”
he said, pulling me into his arms. But even as
we held each other, I knew the war outside
our walls was far from over. Phindile’s shadow
loomed larger than ever. And now, there was
a life depending on us. I stayed silent a
moment longer, letting the weight of the news
settle between us. Zakhe’s hands moved from
my waist to my face, his rough thumbs
brushing away a tear I hadn’t known escaped.
Zakhe: “This child… is our future,”
he said quietly, voice thick with something I
hadn’t heard from him before — hope.
Me: “I’m scared,”
I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
He pulled me close, his chest rising and
falling against mine.
Zakhe: “You don’t have to be,”
he promised.
Zakhe: “I’ll protect you both. No matter what
comes.”
But that promise felt fragile. Because outside,
the streets whispered threats. Phindile’s name
was on every lip. And the secret she
carried—the one about our son—loomed like
a ticking bomb waiting to explode. Later that
evening, I sat at Gogo Ntombi kile’s re, the
flames crackling in the quiet night. She
handed me a bundle of herbs, her eyes
piercing.
Ntombi: “This child will carry re and
shadow,”
she said.
Ntombi: “But with your strength, Tholakele,
she or he will carry more than that.”
I clutched the bundle, thinking about Zakhe
— about us. About the war we’d have to ght,
not just for ourselves… But for the life
growing inside me. The days that followed felt
surreal, like I was walking in a dream—or
maybe a nightmare. Every moment with
Zakhelikhaya was bittersweet. He was tender
and protective, yet shadows danced in his
eyes. One evening, I found him staring out
over the city from the balcony, ngers
clenched so tight his knuckles shone white. I
stepped closer.
Me: “Zakhe…”
He didn’t turn at rst.
Me: “I’m scared,”
I whispered.
Me: “What if this child… changes
everything?”
His jaw tightened.
Zakhe: “It already has,” he said.
Then he pulled me into his arms and kissed
the fear out of me. But peace was a fragile
thing. Phindile’s return was a storm I couldn’t
ignore. Rumors swirled in the streets—she
knew about the baby. And if she did, she
wouldn’t stop until she had everything. That
night, as I lay in bed, the baby kicking softly
inside me, I prayed for strength. Not just for
me or Zakhe… but for the child carrying the
blood of re and storm.
The future of everything we fought for.
CHAPTER 42
Phindile’s POV

The clinic waiting room buzzed with chatter

and nervous whispers, but all I could hear
was the steady thump of my own heartbeat.
My hands trembled as I clutched the small
envelope in my purse—results I wasn’t sure I
wanted to see.
Zakhelikhaya’s child. I wasn’t about to let
Tholakele have what was rightfully mine.
Nurse: “Phindile?”
A nurse called, her voice pulling me back. I
followed her into a cold, sterile room. The
test results lay on the table between us. I
picked them up with shaking ngers. My eyes
darted to the words. Then to the line below.
“This baby is not yours,” it read.
The room tilted. My breath caught. Was it
possible? Had Zakhe been lying to me all
these years? Or had someone else been
carrying his child? I left the clinic with a
storm raging inside me. The secret I held
now had the power to destroy or redeem.
And I was ready to use it. That night, I sent a
message.
“You need to know the truth. Meet me at the
old warehouse. Alone.”

The words echoed in my mind as I stepped

back into the rain-soaked streets of Durban.
This baby is not yours. I replayed the moment
over and over — the sterile white room, the
coldness of the nurse’s eyes, the undeniable
truth inked on the paper. How could this be?
Had I been a fool all these years? Or had
Zakhe been hiding something darker beneath
the surface? I clenched my sts,
determination burning through the confusion.
If the child wasn’t his, then whose was it? And
more importantly — what did this mean for
my plans? Later that night, under the
flickering streetlamp by the old warehouse, I
waited. My phone buzzed with his reply: “I’ll
be there.”
The game was about to change.
And I wasn’t going down without a ght. The
rain hammered down harder now, soaking
through my jacket as I made my way back to
the car. I felt like the weight of the world was
crushing me — but I couldn’t show
weakness. Not now.
Not ever. I pulled the test results from my bag
again and stared at the words:
This baby is not yours.
A bitter laugh escaped me. If Zakhelikhaya
believed that, then he was more naive than I
thought. Because secrets like these never
stay buried. I reached into my pocket and
pulled out my phone, ngers shaking as I
typed the message.
“You need to know the truth. Meet me at the
warehouse. Alone.”
Sent. And just like that, the next move was
mine. The war wasn’t over — it was only just
beginning.
CHAPTER 43
Zakhe’s POV

The warehouse sat in darkness, shadows

swallowing its cracked walls and broken
windows. I pulled my jacket tighter as I
stepped inside, every nerve on alert.
Phindile’s message had come like a bullet to
the chest.
You need to know the truth.
What truth?
I was ready for war. But this? This was
something else. Inside, the faint glow of a
single bare bulb illuminated Phindile’s gure.
She looked unchanged — the same sharp
eyes, the same cruel smile. But there was
something in her stance tonight…
desperation? I swallowed hard.
Me: “What truth?”
I asked, voice low but steady. She met my
gaze, unblinking.
Phindi: “The baby,”
she said.
Phindi: “The one Tholakele’s carrying…”
My heart stopped.
Phindi: “Isn’t yours.”
I took a step forward, anger rising like
wild re.
Me: “Don’t lie.”
She shook her head slowly, stepping back.
Phindi: “Check the tests,”
she whispered.
Phindi: “DNA proves it.”
I felt my world tilt, my breath caught in a
storm of disbelief and rage. But beneath the
chaos, one thing was clear. I had to protect
Tholakele — and the baby — no matter what.
No matter the lies. No matter the secrets.
Because I promised her. And a promise
wasn’t just words in my world. Phindile’s eyes
searched mine, waiting for a crack. But I
stood unmoved, solid as the concrete
beneath our feet.
Me: “This isn’t over,”
I said, voice cold like steel.
Me: “I don’t care what that paper says. I
promised Tholakele I’d protect her. And that
means ghting through every lie you throw.”
She smirked, stepping closer, challenging.
Phindi “Promises don’t mean shit in our
world, Zakhe.”
I caught her wrist before she could step away
and pulled her close — not to hurt, but to
remind her who I was.
Me: “I’m not the man I used to be,” I said low.
Me: “But one thing’s the same — I don’t
break my promises. Not to the woman I love.
Not to the child she carries.”
Her breath hitched. I let go and took a step
back, ready to leave this nightmare behind.
But Phindile’s voice stopped me cold.
Phindi: “Just know — the past doesn’t forget.
And sometimes… it comes back to burn.”
I looked out through the cracked windows
into the night. The city wasn’t sleeping. And
neither was the war.

CHAPTER 44

I found her body at dawn. Collapsed against

the graf ti-scarred wall of the safehouse,
Samukelisiwe lay motionless, her favorite
silver necklace tangled in the cracks of the
concrete. Blood pooled beneath her, dark and
silent. My scream ripped through the early
morning stillness.
Moments later, Zakhelikhaya was at my side,
gun drawn, fury blazing in his eyes. But when
he saw her—his sister in all but blood—he
lowered his weapon, trembling. I knelt beside
Samu, cradling her head in my lap. Her skin
was cold, her eyes half-open, as if she’d been
caught between two worlds. In her hand was
her phone, screen lit with an unread voice
note from hours earlier.
Samu’s Last Message (played softly against
the roar of my heartbreak):
“Tholakele… if you’re hearing this, trust no
one. They set me up. I tried to warn you.
Bawi—don’t go to the docks tonight. Zakhe—
check the shipment manifest. Phindile’s
involved. I’m sorry I didn’t reach you in time.”
Her voice cracked on the word sorry. I
pressed play again, tears blurring the words
on the screen. She had known. She had seen
the trap. And she died trying to save us.
Zakhe gathered her in his arms, his tears hot
on my cheeks.
Zakhe: “Who did this?”
he growled, voice breaking. I looked down at
Samu, remembering her soft laugh, her erce
loyalty, the way she always carried hope in
her smile.
Me: “She was a pawn,”
I whispered.
Me: “Thrown into their game. They used her
to get to us.”
That night, I sat by Samu’s grave, moonlight
tracing the fresh mound of earth. Bawi and I
placed her phone on the headstone. Her last
message played again, echoing through the
silent cemetery:
“I tried to warn you…”
I traced the letters of her name on the
wooden cross—SAMUKELISIWE NKOSI—
and vowed:
“Your warning won’t go unanswered, sister. I
promise.”
The night was suffocating, heavy with the
weight of grief and rage. Zakhe’s hands
trembled as he clutched Samu’s phone. The
voice note repeated in my mind—her last
desperate plea echoing through the darkness.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and met
his burning eyes.
Me: “We can’t let this go unanswered,”
I said, voice erce despite the tears
streaming down my face. He nodded, jaw
clenched.
Zakhe: “We’ll nd who did this. I swear it.”
Bawi stood beside me, silent but strong.
Bawi: “This is bigger than any of us thought,”
she said quietly.
Bawi: “Phindile’s reach goes deeper.”
I felt the chill of betrayal, like cold ngers
wrapping around my heart. As dawn broke, I
sent messages to the crew — everyone
needed to know. Samu’s death was a
declaration of war. And we were ready to
 ght. I sat alone in the dim light of the
safehouse, Samu’s phone clutched tightly in
my hand. Her voice, fragile but determined,
played over and over.
“Tholakele… if you’re hearing this, trust no
one. Bawi—don’t go to the docks tonight.
Zakhe—check the shipment manifest.
Phindile’s involved. I’m sorry I didn’t reach
you in time.”
Her words hit me like a hammer. Phindile’s
name was poison, and Samu had paid the
price for knowing too much. I gritted my
teeth, fury rising with every breath.
They used her. They killed her to silence the
truth.
I stood, pacing the room, every muscle coiled
for vengeance.
Me: “No one touches my family,”
I growled to the empty room.
Me: “No one.”
The promise was more than words — it was a
vow written in blood and re. I looked at the
phone again. Samu’s last message wasn’t just
a warning. It was a call to arms. And I would
answer it.

CHAPTER 45
Zakhe’s POV

The warehouse was colder than I

remembered. Inside, crates sat stacked like
silent witnesses—each one holding secrets
we could no longer afford to keep. I lit a
match. The small flame flickered, fragile but
de ant against the darkness. With one steady
breath, I dropped it onto the nearest crate.
Flames licked upward, hungry and wild.
Me: “Burn the records,”
I commanded, voice steady despite the storm
raging inside. Mash and Fireboy moved
quickly, tossing les, hard drives, anything
that could tie us to the mess Phindile had
spun. The re grew, swallowing paper and
plastic alike, erasing evidence, and burying
ghosts. Bawi stood nearby, eyes erce as she
watched the blaze.
Bawi: “We can’t let them nd a way back in,”
she said.
Me: “No,”
I agreed.
Me: “This is more than survival now. It’s war.”
Outside, the city pulsed with life unaware of
the battle raging in the shadows. Inside, the
re burned away our past — but the future
was still a battle eld. And we were ready to
ght for every inch. The smoke thickened,
curling like a serpent around the rafters as
the flames devoured every piece of
evidence—the contracts, ledgers,
photographs—everything tying us to the
underworld’s dark corners. Mash tossed
another stack of les into the inferno, the
paper crackling as it turned to ash.
Me: “Once this is done, no one can use this
against us,”
 I said, my voice low but resolute. Fireboy lit
a trail of gasoline along the floor, and the re
leapt with a hungry roar. Suddenly, my phone
buzzed in my pocket—an encrypted
message.
“They’re coming for you tonight. Phindile’s
back with backup. Watch your six.”
I slipped the phone away and turned to Bawi.
Me: “We’ve got a target on our backs. We
nish this tonight — or we don’t nish at all.”
She nodded, eyes blazing.
Bawi: “Let’s make sure they regret every step.”

Thola’s POV
Outside, the re blazed, lighting up the night
like a signal flare. Inside, we prepared for war.
Because in this life, only the ruthless survive.
The heat from the re hit my face, the orange
glow flickering in my eyes as I watched the
flames consume everything tied to our past.
Memories, secrets, lies—all turning to ash.
But even as the re ate the evidence, I felt a
chill creep up my spine. This was just the
beginning.
Zakhelikhaya’s voice was steady but erce as
he barked orders.
Zakhe: “We burn everything. No traces. No
trails. No comebacks.”
Bawi stood close, her hand on my shoulder,
grounding me in the chaos.
Bawi: “We’re erasing the past,”
she said softly.
Bawi: “So we can write our own future.”
I looked at Zakhe, his face hardened but his
eyes held a flicker of something softer. A
promise. To protect us. To ght for us. No
matter what came next. The re roared louder,
the smoke rising into the night sky like a
warning. And I clenched my sts, ready to
face whatever storm was coming. Because
this time… we would burn brighter than the
flames.

CHAPTER 46

The night air was thick with tension as I found

myself bound by rough ropes in a dimly lit
room. My wrists chafed, but my heart
raced—not with fear, but de ance. Phindile
stood before me, eyes cold, a cruel smile
playing on her lips.
Phindi: “You think burning the records would
stop me?”
she sneered.
Phindi: “You’re tangled in a web you can’t
escape.”
Before I could respond, she stepped closer,
her breath warm against my cheek.
Phindi: “You belong to me, Tholakele,” she
whispered. I shivered—not from her words,
but from the sudden brush of her lips against
mine. It was a kiss meant to break me, to
claim me. But I met her halfway, erce and
unyielding. Zakhelikhaya burst through the
door, gun drawn and eyes blazing with fury.
Zakhe: “Let her go!”
he commanded, voice shaking with rage.
Phindile smirked, releasing me slowly.
Phindi: “This isn’t over,”
she hissed as she slipped into the shadows.
Zakhe caught me as I stumbled, holding me
close.
Zakhe: “Ngiyakuthembisa, Thola,”
he murmured.
Zakhe: “You’re mine. Always.”
And in that moment, with hands still bound
but lips still locked in a erce promise, I
believed him.
Zakhe’s POV

The moment I kicked down that door, time

slowed. There she was — Tholakele, wrists
bound, eyes erce even in the dim light.
Phindile’s grin twisted when she saw me, but
it vanished fast.
Me: “Let her go,”
I growled, stepping forward, gun steady.
Phindile’s lips brushed Tholakele’s in a cruel
kiss, like a snake marking its territory. I red a
warning shot into the ceiling.
Zakhe: “This ends now.”
Tholakele struggled free as Phindile backed
away, snarling. My arms wrapped around
Tholakele tight.
Me: “You’re mine,”
I whispered ercely. Her heartbeat hammered
against my chest — wild, unbroken. Outside,
the city kept turning — unaware of the war
just inside these walls. And I knew one thing
for sure: I’d never let anyone touch her again.

CHAPTER 47
I thought I’d seen betrayal in every mirror, but
nothing prepared me for this. Qiniselani
stood across the burned-out lot—once our
battle eld, now a graveyard of secrets. Her
red doek stained with soot, her eyes ice-cold.
Qini: “Tholakele Vilakazi,”
she called out, voice steady, every word a
blade. I stepped forward, heels crunching
gravel, heart pounding. Zakhe’s promise
echoed in my veins: You’re mine. Always.
Behind me, I felt the weight of his gaze. I
turned slightly, seeing Zakhelikhaya emerge
from the shadows—gold tooth glinting, gun
bulged beneath his jacket. Qiniselani smiled.
Qini: “You think you own this world? You
think her blood makes you untouchable?”
Her words weren’t for me—they were for him.
She lifted something from beneath her cloak:
a small vial of crimson liquid.
Qini: “Blood binds us,”
she said, holding it aloft.
Qini: “But history breaks promises.”
She smashed the vial on the ground. The
blood hissed and sizzled against the hot
concrete—an offering, a curse. I felt it before
I saw it—pain searing through my leg.
Qiniselani had red. A bullet ripped through
my thigh, throwing me to the ground. Zakhe
roared, sprinting to me, gun raised. Qiniselani
backed away, tears glinting in her eyes.
Qini: “I did it for our father,”
she whispered, voice cracking.
Qini: “He needs the legacy to end with me.”
Zakhe cradled me, ripping his jacket to stem
the blood.
Me: “Why?”
I gasped, vision blurring. She looked at me—
sister turned specter—and whispered:
Qini: “You were given life he denied me. I take
what’s mine.”
Then, with a nal glance at Zakhe’s
determined fury, she disappeared into the
smoke of the burning records. Zakhe carried
me away, every step a promise etched in
rage. I realized betrayal wasn’t just in blood—
it was in bones, in history, in the cruelest of
legacies. And as I passed out into the cold
night air, I knew one thing remained true: He
would burn heaven and hell to protect what
was ours.

Zakhe’s POV
The moment Qiniselani raised the gun, time
froze — a heartbeat stretched thin.
Tholakele’s scream pierced the night as the
bullet tore through her leg, sending her
crashing down. My world ignited. I lunged
forward, grabbing her before she hit the
ground, ripping my jacket to press against
the wound.
Me: “Why, Qiniselani?”
I roared, voice thick with rage and disbelief.
She met my eyes, pain and resolve warring in
her gaze.
Qini: “Our father’s legacy ends with me,”
she spat.
Qini: “Tholakele was never meant to take
what’s mine.”
Betrayal burned hotter than any bullet. I
tightened my grip on Thola and stood, my
mind racing.
Me: “You’ll pay for this,”
I promised — a vow carved in re.
Qiniselani’s gure melted into the shadows,
leaving only the scent of betrayal hanging in
the air. As I carried Tholakele away, every
step fueled by fury, I knew the war had
deepened. Blood wasn’t just spilled tonight —
it was broken.

CHAPTER 48
The moment I saw Gogo Deli slump to the
ground, my heart dropped like a stone. Her
hands trembled as she clutched her chest,
eyes wide with sudden pain.
Me: “Gogo!”
I shouted, rushing to her side as the world
around me blurred. Zakhelikhaya was there
instantly, steadying her frail body with erce
determination.
Zakhe: “We need to get her to the clinic —
now!”
he commanded, voice tight with urgency. But
Gogo’s breaths were shallow, each one a
struggle. Her wise eyes searched mine, lled
with worry and something deeper — a
warning.
The ride to the clinic was a blur of sirens and
prayers. Doctors swarmed, but the news was
grim. Gogo Deli, the heart of our family, was
collapsing under the weight of years and
secrets too heavy to bear. That night, as the
rain fell softly outside, I sat holding her hand,
feeling the fading strength in her grasp. Her
voice, barely a whisper, cut through the
silence.
Gogo: “Tholakele… promise me you’ll be
strong. For the family. For the ght.”
Tears streamed down my face as I nodded,
the promise settling deep in my bones.
Gogo Deli’s collapse was more than a health
crisis—it was a sign. The war we fought was
coming to a turning point. And we had to be
ready. Gogo’s breathing grew more labored,
her face pale and drawn under the harsh
clinic lights. I held her hand tightly, willing
her to ght — but the strength was fading
fast. Her eyes fluttered open briefly, locking
onto mine.
Gogo: “Thola… my child,”
she whispered, voice trembling.
Gogo: “There are secrets buried deeper than
you know. Be careful who you trust.”
Her hand fell limp in mine. Zakhelikhaya
placed a steady hand on my shoulder.
Zakhe: “We’ll uncover everything, Gogo’s
wisdom will guide us,”
he said softly, but the worry in his eyes
matched mine. Later, as the clinic emptied
and night wrapped around us, I sat beside
Gogo’s bed, clutching her frail hand. Her
collapse wasn’t just illness—it was a warning,
a nal call to prepare for the battles ahead.
Because if Gogo Deli was fading, then the re
within our family needed to burn brighter
than ever.
Zakhe’s POV

The moment Gogo Deli fell, the world slowed.

I caught her before she hit the ground,
feeling the frailty of years pressed into her
trembling frame.
Me: “Gogo, stay with me,”
I pleaded, voice low but urgent. Her eyes
fluttered open, a flicker of pain and wisdom
shining through.
Gogo: “Zakhe... the past isn’t done with us,”
she whispered.
Gogo: “Watch the bloodlines. Trust is the
deadliest weapon.”
I called for help, every second stretching like
an eternity as we rushed her to the clinic. The
doctors moved quickly, but even their skill
couldn’t hide the truth. Gogo Deli was
weakening — and time was running out.
Outside, rain hammered the windows as I sat
by her bedside, mind racing with threats
unseen and enemies too close. Her collapse
was more than illness — it was a sign. A
warning that the battles ahead would test us
like never before. And I vowed, with every
ounce of strength left in me, to protect her —
and Tholakele — at any cost.

CHAPTER 49
Bawi’s POV
The night was too quiet — the kind of silence
that screams danger. I stood just outside the
edge of the township, shadows hiding more
than light, as I watched the gures moving
beneath the flickering streetlamps. What I saw
chilled me to the bone. There, in the back of a
beaten-up van, were faces I never expected
— enemies disguised as allies, plotting
moves that could destroy us all. Among them
was Phindile, her smile colder than the night
air. And then, like a ghost, Qiniselani
appeared, whispering orders that sealed fates.
I tried to pull away, heart hammering, but a
twig snapped beneath my foot. Heads
whipped toward me instantly.
Voice: “Bawi…”
 a voice hissed from the darkness. I froze —
caught in a trap I never saw coming. Now,
trapped between loyalty and betrayal, I had to
decide. Do I risk everything to expose what I
saw Or stay silent and protect the ones I
love? The weight of knowing too much
pressed down on me like a curse. Because in
this world, some secrets are better left buried.
But I couldn’t turn away. Not now. My chest
rose and fell rapidly. I pressed my back
against the crumbling wall of the alley,
praying to disappear. Phindile’s eyes had
scanned in my direction. She hadn’t seen
me… I think. But Qiniselani? That woman
had instincts sharp enough to hear a
heartbeat through a storm. I swallowed,
stepping backward slowly. My phone buzzed
in my pocket — a message from Tholakele.
Thola: “Where are you? Zakhe’s asking. Don’t
be alone, sthandwa. Please.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry.
I wanted to answer her. But I couldn’t move.
Because just then, I heard Qiniselani’s voice
again.
Qini: “She saw us. Find her. Now.”
I ran. Shoes slapping against the concrete.
My lungs burned. My legs were jelly. But I
ran. I took every turn I remembered from
childhood. Hopped fences. Crawled under
gates. Until I reached the abandoned shebeen
next to the old scrapyard.No one followed.
Not yet. I pressed my hand over my mouth to
muffle the sound of my ragged breathing. My
whole body trembled. In that van… I’d seen
weapons. I’d seen les. And I’d seen a picture
of Tholakele — circled in red. They were
planning something. Something big.
Something deadly.
I had to tell Zakhe.
I had to tell Thola.
I had to tell someone.
But a part of me knew… if I did, I wouldn’t
live to see the sunrise. Because in that
moment, I realized: I wasn’t just a best friend
anymore.
I was a witness. A liability. A target.
And in KwaMashu, when you see too
much… You don’t always get to say goodbye.
I sat in the scrapyard for what felt like hours,
the smell of rust thick in my nose, the wind
cold even though it was a summer night. My
hands trembled. My shirt stuck to my back
with sweat. I kept replaying what I saw in that
van — like a cursed movie.
Files.
Stacks of money.
Guns.
And worse…
Tholakele’s photo, printed and marked with a
red circle. Like she was next. Like she was
chosen.
I nally pulled my phone from my pocket, but
my hands were shaking too much to type.
The screen had cracked in my fall. I took a
deep breath and whispered,
"Breathe, Bawi… Breathe."
I opened my messages and started typing.
Bawi: “Thola. I saw something. You need to
get away from Qiniselani. I’m coming to you.”
Before I could hit send, I heard a sound. A
slow crunch of gravel. Footsteps.
Me: “Shit,”
I whispered. I ducked. Peered through a gap
in the scrapyard fencing. Qiniselani’s boots.
I’d know them anywhere. Shiny. Polished. Not
a scratch on them. She wasn’t alone.
Phindile was with him.
Phindi: “Are you sure you saw her run this
way?”
Phindile asked.
Qini: “She’s a smart girl,”
Qiniselani replied.
Qini: “But not smart enough to live after what
she saw.”I backed away slowly, pressing my
body flat against the pile of rusted car doors.
My heart was thundering so loud I thought
they could hear it.
I had two options. Run. Again. Or ght. But
me? I’m Bawi. I don’t have a gun. I don’t have
backup. I’m not built for shootouts or
betrayals.
I’m just a girl who saw too much. But even
that… was enough to get me killed. They got
closer. And closer. I looked down at the metal
rod near my feet. I picked it up. And for the
rst time in my life… I didn’t feel like a
witness. I felt like a survivor.

CHAPTER 50
There are moments in life where the world
stops spinning. Where time folds in on itself
like an old love letter. And tonight, my world
folded right into the soft flutter of life beneath
my skin. Zithulele kicked. For the very rst
time. I had been lying in Zakhe’s bed,
wrapped in his T-shirt, the windows open,
the hum of the township outside mixing with
the quiet chaos in my chest. Everything felt
loud lately. Phindile’s return. Bawi’s haunting
voice note. Qiniselani’s shadow stretching
further across our lives. But here — in this
second — all of that quieted.
Because my baby moved. I gasped, my hand
flying to my belly.
Me: “Zakhe!”
He was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth
and humming something offbeat.
Me: “Zakhelikhaya Zulu! Come here right
now!”
He dropped everything.
Zakhe: "Uphuma nini ngale ndlela?!"
he shouted in panic, running shirtless into
the room.
Zakhe: “What’s wrong?”
I grabbed his hand and shoved it on my
stomach.
Me: “Shhh… just wait.”
And then… A soft, de nite kick. Like a
whisper from the womb. Zakhe’s whole body
froze. His eyes widened. And then — His
knees gave in. He dropped to the floor like
he’d been shot. But not in pain. In awe.
Zakhe: “Zithulele,”
he whispered, his lips brushing my skin.
Zakhe: “That’s my boy. That’s my boy…”
Tears gathered in his eyes. Real, raw, honest
emotion.
Zakhe: “I didn’t know I could feel like this,”
he said, his voice cracking. I laughed through
my own tears.
Me: “You kill people and move in silence, but
look at you. Crying over a kick.”
He kissed my belly. Again and again.
Zakhe: “I’d kill a thousand more just to protect
this moment.”
Me: “Don’t say that.”
Zakhe: “I mean it. There’s nothing — nothing
— I won’t do for you and him.”
I wanted to believe that. I did believe that. But
my heart still ached with questions. Like why
Phindile was back. Why Qiniselani kept
calling me "her key.” Why Bawi’s voice note
had been cut off. And why… I had a bad
feeling that our peace wouldn’t last the week.
Still, I let myself feel it. The flutter of life
inside me. The warmth of Zakhe’s lips. The
way Zithulele kicked again — stronger this
time. Like he knew war was coming… And
he was ready.
Later that night, Zakhe wouldn’t stop touching
my belly. His rough palms smoothed over my
skin like he was memorizing the exact place
where his son had kicked. He’d gone quiet
again — not the dangerous, calculating quiet
— but that gentle, overwhelmed kind he
rarely showed.
We lay chest to chest, legs tangled, our
breaths syncing.
Zakhe: “Zithulele,”
he said again like it was holy.
Me: “You sure about the name?”
Zakhe: “I’m sure. You said when he kicks,
we’d name him. He kicked… so.”
Zakhe smiled.
Me: “Then it’s done. Zithulele Zulu.”
The name hung in the room like a vow. We
sat up in bed. I was drinking lukewarm ginger
tea because my cravings didn’t care what time
it was. Zakhe had a cigarette in one hand,
even though he wasn’t lighting it — just
holding it between his ngers like it
grounded him.
Zakhe: “Thola,”
he murmured,
Zakhe: “I don’t know if I’ll make it.”
I looked at him.
Me: “Make it where?”
Zakhe: “To the end. To peace. To watching
him grow up.”
My chest tightened.
Me: “Don’t say things like that.”
But he didn’t stop.
Zakhe: “I’ve killed, Tholakele. I've taken lives
and stolen childhoods. If karma is real, it’s
already following me home. You think men
like me get to live long enough to hold their
sons at soccer matches?”
I placed my hand on his cheek.
Me: “You will.”
Zakhe: “I dream of being there. Holding him
when he cries. Teaching him to throw a
punch. Walking into a meeting with him at
eighteen and saying ‘This is my son —
respect him or die.’”
I smiled.
Me: “Sounds very dramatic.”
Zakhe: “I’m not playing,”
he said.
Zakhe: “Zithulele will be feared. Loved.
Protected. He will never cry the way I did
growing up.”
I kissed his knuckles, my eyes stinging.
Me: “He’ll have a father who’d burn the world
for him.” Zakhe exhaled. Zakhe: “And a
mother who’d rebuild it.”

But outside... the world was already cracking.

Someone was watching our house from
across the street. A car that didn’t belong on
this road was parked under the flickering
streetlight. And in its passenger seat… a
familiar face we hadn’t seen in years.
Zithulele had kicked.
But so had the devil.
The next morning, Zakhe was up before me.
He wasn’t in the bed when I reached for him,
and my chest instantly felt hollow. My hand
rested on the warmth he’d left behind on the
sheets, and for a moment, I closed my eyes
and held on to it — like it could anchor me to
peace. I found him in the backyard, shirtless,
his gold tooth flashing as he spoke softly to
someone on the phone. He was barefoot,
pacing in the grass like a lion about to strike.
I didn't mean to listen, but I heard him say:
Zakhe: “She’s pregnant now. I’m not risking
anything. You hear me? Anything.”
Then a pause.
Zakhe: “I’ll handle Qiniselani myself. If she
steps near her again… you know what to do.”
I stepped back into the house quietly. My
body felt heavy. Not just with the baby, but
with the reality of who I’d fallen in love with.
Later that afternoon, I was curled up on the
couch, both hands on my belly, waiting for
that kick again. I whispered,
Me: “Do it for mama, Zithu. Let me know
you’re still there.”
Zakhe came to sit beside me, eyes soft now.
He placed his hand gently over mine, not
saying a word. We sat like that for a while —
the only sound was the hum of the fan and
the faint rumble of street life beyond our
walls. Then it happened. A thump.
Not as strong as before, but it was there —
real, deliberate. I gasped.
Me: “He did it again!”
Zakhe froze. Then his face broke into the
most un-Zakhe smile I’d ever seen — wide,
full of teeth, the kind of smile that made you
believe he’d never held a gun or ordered a
hit.
Me: “He hears you,”
I said, choking up.
Me: “He knows you.”
Zakhe leaned down, pressing his lips to my
belly.
Zakhe: “You’re mine, mfana wami. And I swear
on my blood, I’ll never let anyone touch you
or your mother.”
A tear slid down my cheek as I ran my ngers
through his hair. This man, for all his
darkness, loved like a storm. And this child
inside me? He was already his father’s reason
to breathe. But just as quickly as that peace
settled over us, it was snatched away. The
doorbell rang.
Not a knock. A ring. Too clean, too calm, too
unfamiliar. Zakhe rose slowly. Gun tucked in
his waistband.
Eyes narrowed.
Me: “I’m coming with you,”
I said. He didn’t argue. He just opened the
door ——and standing there was Phindile.
Smiling like a woman who had nothing to
lose.

CHAPTER 51
There’s something about silence that screams
louder than gunshots. That was the silence
Zakhe and Phindile stood in. She didn’t say
anything at rst. Just stared at him. Then her
eyes slowly dropped to my stomach.
Swollen. Obvious.
Proof.
Phindi: “You kept this from me?”
she nally said, voice like cold steel wrapped
in sugar. Zakhe didn’t blink.
Zakhe: “There was nothing to keep.”
Her smile was heartbreak turned bitter.
Phindi: “I carried you through court cases.
Bullets. Your mother’s funeral. But this?”
She turned to me.
Phindi: “This is who you left me for?”
I stepped forward, my hand protectively
resting on my belly.
Me: “He didn’t leave you for me. He left
because you were already gone.”
The words stunned her. She blinked once.
Twice. Then smiled like a woman who’d
already planned the explosion.
Phindi: “Congratulations,”
she said.
Phindi: “You’re carrying a legacy soaked in
blood.”
Then she left. Just like that. Like a warning
cloaked in lipstick and perfume. Later that
night, I found Zakhe shirtless again. This
time, not in rage. Not in power. He was
staring at the long mirror in our bedroom,
ngers tracing something over his heart.
Me: “What’s that?”
I asked gently. He turned to me, and for the
rst time in a long time, I saw vulnerability in
his eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed and
pulled me toward him.
Zakhe: “I need to show you something.”
There — just above his heart — was a fresh
tattoo. Still healing. Still raw. It was my name.
“Tholakele.” Written in isiZulu script, wrapped
around a bleeding heart.
Below it, the initials: Z.Z.Z.
Zakhe: “Zakhelikhaya. Zithulele. Zulu,”
he said softly.
Zakhe: “Our names. Our blood. Our family.”
I didn’t say anything. I just knelt before him
and pressed my lips over the red skin of his
chest. He flinched.
Zakhe: “It still burns.”
Me: “Good,”
I whispered.
Me: “Love should hurt a little.”
He chuckled, pulling me into his arms.
And for that moment, it wasn’t about the
gangs, the bullets, the exes, or the enemies.
It was just us. His heartbeat against my ear.
His tattoo against my lips. And the tiny kicks
of a baby boy who already knew love was
war. He held me longer than usual that night.
No rush. No breath between kisses. No need
to prove anything. Just... stillness.
Zakhe: “You know what this tattoo means?”
he asked, voice deep and hoarse, brushing
his lips across my shoulder.
I nodded.
Me: “It means you nally stopped running.”
Zakhe pulled back to look at me, his eyes
glossed with something I rarely saw in him—
fear.
Zakhe: “I don’t know how long I’ll have peace,
sthandwa sami,”
he murmured.
Zakhe: “I just know I want you inked into me
even when I’m gone. Even when I’m dust.”
Me: “You’re not going anywhere,”
I said rmly, but he just smiled. That soft,
knowing smile that always terri ed me more
than his guns. He traced my jaw with his
thumb.
Zakhe: “I want you to promise me something.”
I froze.
Me: “Zakhe...”
Zakhe: “I’m serious.”
His grip on me tightened just a little.
Zakhe: “If anything happens to me—”
Me: “Don’t—”
Zakhe: “—You raise our son with re in his
blood, but peace in his heart. Don’t let him
become me.”
My lips trembled.
Me: “And who exactly are you?”
He swallowed hard, a bitter laugh escaping.
Zakhe: “A man with too many sins and too
few tomorrows.”

I stayed quiet that night as he fell asleep with

his head on my belly, whispering to Zithulele
about dreams, and revenge, and surviving
everything that tried to kill you.I watched his
tattoo rise and fall with each breath.
My name.
Our baby.
His legacy.
A name inked into skin can fade, yes.
But love this raw? It scars the soul. Morning
sunlight ltered through the sheer curtain,
casting a soft glow across his back as he sat
at the edge of the bed. His shirt lay
discarded, and my eyes traced the fresh ink
between his shoulder blades, the skin still
slightly red and swollen. THOLAKELE —
carved in thick, bold Zulu script. Below it, the
smallest footprint — Zithulele's.
Me: “Come here,”
I whispered, sitting up slowly, wrapping the
blanket around my chest. He turned to me,
and even with the tattoos, the scars, the
hardened body — his eyes gave him away.
Gentle. Tired. Still searching.
Me: “I need you to know something,” I said,
standing behind him and running my ngers
over the tattoo.
Me: “You’ve always been mine. With or
without this ink.”
He turned his head slightly.
Zakhe: “Then this... is my proof. Even if I die
tomorrow, you’ll know I was yours. Not just in
talk. Not just in sex. But in the skin. In the
blood.”
I kissed the nape of his neck, where a bead of
sweat sat at the base of the tattoo. Then
rested my chin on his shoulder.
Me: “I’m scared,”
I admitted.
Me: “This world keeps trying to rip us apart.”
Zakhe reached for my hand and brought it to
his chest.
Zakhe: “You feel that?”
he said.
Zakhe: “That’s you. Beating inside me.”
Zakhe: “And if the world ever tries to pull us
apart again...”
He turned to face me fully, his face serious
now.
Zakhe: “I’ll burn it all to the ground before I let
it.”
Later that day, I watched him pull a clean shirt
over the tattoo, wincing slightly as the fabric
touched raw skin.
Me: “Does it hurt?”
I teased. He smirked.
Zakhe: “Not as much as falling in love with a
woman who makes me soft.”
We laughed. But beneath the laughter was
something sharp. The weight of what was
coming. The sense that time was closing in.
Still, when he kissed me goodbye before his
meeting with the guys — his lips stayed
longer than usual. His ngers tangled in mine
like they were saying something his mouth
couldn’t. I stood at the door long after he left,
one hand on my belly.
Me: “Baba wakho...”
I whispered to Zithulele.
Me: “He’s got your name on his skin. But
you? You’ve got his whole heart.” Later that
night, after the re had died down outside
and the crew had all left, I found him in the
lounge — bare-chested, cleaning his gun,
candlelight dancing on his skin. He looked up
at me as I entered.
Zakhe: “You gonna stare all night or say
something, sthandwa sami?”
he asked, his voice low and teasing. I walked
over slowly, stopping behind him, tracing the
ink that now lived on his back.
Me: "Why my name?"
I asked softly, ngers brushing over the
slightly raised letters.
Me: “You could’ve picked anything. A lion. A
crown. A skull like the rest of them.”
He paused, put the gun down, and leaned his
head back until it rested against my belly.
Zakhe: “I already have a crown. It’s you.”
His words struck deep. Then he added,
Zakhe: “I’ve bled for many things, Thola.
Power. Loyalty. Revenge. But this? This is the
 rst time I’d bleed for love. For you. For our
son.”
I sank into the couch beside him, curling into
his warmth, heart aching with so much love it
almost felt like pain. He looked at me, serious
now. Zakhe: “If anything ever happens to me,
promise me you’ll show him this tattoo one
day. Let him know that his father wore his
name like armor.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
Me: “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
He didn't answer. Just pulled me closer and
kissed my forehead. But I saw it — the fear in
his eyes. The knowing. The next morning, I
woke up alone in bed. But on Zakhe’s pillow,
a note written in his messy handwriting:
“Ink is forever. So is love.
Wait for me.
— Z”
And I did. With my hand resting on my belly,
Tattooed in silence. Waiting.

CHAPTER 52
Zakhe’s POV

The streets talk before the bullets do. You

hear it in the way car doors slam a little
harder. In how boys who used to laugh now
walk in silence, hands in pockets, eyes
scanning every alley. Something’s coming.
Something big. I sat at the corner table of
KwaNdlondlo Shisanyama, my usual spot.
Bizo was across from me, his leg bouncing
under the table like he was sitting on a ticking
bomb.
Bizo: “They’re regrouping,”
he muttered, eyes on the grill flames, not
me.
Bizo: “Thulani’s boys. The last ones left from
Samu’s side. Phindile’s been seen talking to
them.”
Phindile. Even her name burned.
Me: “Let them regroup,”
I said, sipping slowly from my glass. Me: “Let
them pray, plot, and dream. Ngizobafundisa
ukuthi ngingubani.”
(I’ll teach them who I am.)
Bizo leaned in.
Bizo: “And if they come for Tholakele?”
That’s when my jaw clenched.
Me: “They won’t make it past her name.”

Tholakele’s POV
There was a heaviness in the wind. I felt it
when I stepped outside the salon. Women
walked faster. Kids didn’t play near the
tuckshop anymore. Even Gogo Deli’s bench
was empty. I ran into Bawi outside Pick n Pay.
Her eyes were wide, her words rushed.
Gogo: “Thola, you need to be careful. I heard
something… Phindile’s back, and she’s not
alone this time. She’s trying to take down
Zakhe from the inside. She’s working with his
enemies.”
My heart thumped.
Gogo: “They’re calling it Operation Zikhiphani.
A full sweep of the Zulu underworld.”
I stared at her.
Me: “How do you know all this?”
Bawi hesitated.
Bawi: “Because my cousin is one of them.”

Zakhelikhaya’s POV
I went home that night, opened the safe, and
took out the gold-plated gun Gogo
Ntombi kile once anointed with holy water. A
gun that had ended bloodlines and started
legacies. I strapped it to my waist, looked in
the mirror, and whispered,
Me: “Awukho owam’thinta uTholakele
eziphilayo.”
(No one touches Tholakele and lives.)
Then the streets began rumbling.
Not with thunder — But with engines, war
cries, and death in expensive cologne.

Thola’s POV
I didn’t sleep that night. Not because of the
baby moving in my belly — but because of
the silence outside. You know that kind of
silence that comes before a hailstorm? It was
that. Zakhe hadn’t come home.
His phone went straight to voicemail.
His gun was gone. Mama Deli used to say,
“When the streets are quiet, inkosi iya duma
ngaphakathi.”
(The king rumbles within.) I stood by the
window in Zakhe’s hoodie, hands on my belly,
whispering,
Me: “Zithulele, please hold on. Your daddy’s
got war in his bones tonight.”
Then I saw it. Three men in dark clothes
creeping around the back of the yard. They
didn’t look like Zakhe’s boys. They moved too
soft, too careful. Assassins. I didn’t scream. I
didn’t even move.
I picked up the gun Zakhe had hidden under
the couch. I sat down like a queen guarding
her kingdom. And I waited.

Bizo’s POV
I found Zakhe in a basement behind the spin
track. Alone. No music. Just maps and guns
on the table.
Me: “They’re moving in on your turf,”
I told him.
Me: “Corner by the scrapyard’s already flying
enemy flags.”
He nodded once.
Zakhe: “Do they know who they’re
provoking?”
he asked, not looking at me. I swallowed
hard.
Me: “They’re not scared anymore, Zakhe.”
His eyes turned darker.
Zakhe: “That’s because they haven’t seen me
angry.”
Tholakele’s POV
The rst man came in through the kitchen. He
didn’t know I was behind the door. Didn’t
know I had Zakhe’s Glock. One shot. He
dropped like a prayer unanswered. The
second one ran. The third froze when he saw
my face.
Me: “I’m pregnant, not powerless,”
I whispered before the neighbors screamed.
Gun re and sirens danced like lovers outside.
But I didn’t flinch.
Zakhe had taught me how to survive this
world. I was no longer just his woman. I was
his legacy. And the streets? They had just met
Mama Zithulele.
CHAPTER 53

The echo of gunshots still burned in my ears

when the rst call came through. Zakhe’s
name, whispered sharp and urgent, cracked
the quiet like a whip.
Zakhe: “Thola… you need to move.”
But how do you run when your body is home
to a life that’s only just begun? I grabbed the
edges of the doorframe, steadying myself
against the shaking walls of the house.
Outside, the sirens were a chorus rising—
warning, lament, war cry. The neighbors were
gathering, eyes wide and fearful, but I was
beyond them. I was re. Bizo showed up
moments later, sweat glistening on his
forehead, eyes hard and restless.
Bizo: “They’re not backing down. This isn’t
just a warning shot—it’s a declaration.”
His voice was low, but the meaning roared
between us. I nodded.
Me: “Then they’ll see what it means to wake a
sleeping lioness.”
He glanced at my belly, his expression
softening for a flicker before the steel
returned.
Bizo: “We’ll protect you. And that child.”
I swallowed, feeling the little kicks inside me
like sparks — tiny flames born into this
raging storm. I thought of Zakhe, alone
somewhere out there, carrying the weight of
blood and brotherhood. His war was not just
his own. No. It was ours. As night wrapped
the streets like a dark cloak, the re was
spreading—not just in the alleys, but inside
me. And this time, it was more than revenge.
It was survival.
It was legacy.
It was our ght.
The night air was thick with smoke and fear.
Flames from burning tires flickered in the
distance, painting the walls of my home with
angry orange shadows. Bizo was pacing by
the window, eyes sharp, every muscle coiled.
I felt the weight of his gaze, protective and
tense, like a lion ready to leap.
Bizo: “We need to move the baby,”
he said suddenly, voice low but urgent.
Bizo: “This is going to get worse before it
gets better.”
I shook my head, clutching my belly.
Me: “Not yet. This is our ground. If I run now,
what message does that send?”
He frowned but didn’t argue. Suddenly, the
sound of screeching tires cut through the
chaos. I froze. A convoy of black SUVs roared
up the street, lights off, like ghosts sliding
through the smoke. The men inside moved
with deadly precision. Bizo stepped forward,
hand on his gun.
Bizo: “They’re here.”
My heart hammered so loud I thought it
might break my ribs. The re outside was no
longer just flames—it was a war on my
doorstep. I drew in a slow breath, the cool
night air lling my lungs, steadying me.
Me: “I’m not just Zakhe’s woman,”
I whispered to the baby inside me. Me: “I’m
Mama ka Zithulele. And we don’t back down.”
As the SUVs stopped, doors slammed open.
Figures emerged—masked, armed, hungry
for blood. But I was ready. The legacy of re
was alive. And tonight, it would burn brighter
than ever. The masked men moved like
shadows, cutting through the smoke and
chaos with sharp, silent steps. My ngers
tightened around the cold steel of Zakhe’s
Glock — the weight of it grounding me.
Bizo’s voice was steady but erce,
Bizo: “Thola, behind me. Watch the kitchen
exit.”
I slid behind him, heart thudding, every
sense on high alert. The rst assailant
stepped forward, gun raised — but before he
could react, a sharp crack echoed. The bullet
hit the wall inches from his head. Bizo’s shot.
The others flinched, and suddenly the night
exploded into a furious storm of gun re. I
dropped low, ring blindly toward the sounds
— my hands steady despite the pounding in
my chest. The baby inside me kicked wildly
— a tiny re ghting its way through the dark.
Glass shattered. Screams echoed. One man
lunged at me. I slammed the butt of the gun
into his face, sending him sprawling.
Me: “Not today,”
 I hissed. Bizo was a whirlwind beside me,
taking down threats with ruthless precision. I
saw his eyes catch mine — erce, protective
— and for a moment, everything else faded.
This was war. But I was no longer just
running from it. I was ready. Gun re cracked
through the kitchen like thunder. Smoke
curled into the air, burning my eyes, but I
didn’t flinch. One of the men fell, clutching
his shoulder. Another staggered toward the
door, but Bizo was already there — a cold
bullet silenced him mid-step. The last man
froze, wild-eyed, and that was my moment. I
raised the Glock, steady and erce, and
squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed louder
than any scream. He dropped. Silence
crashed down. Bizo exhaled hard, rubbing his
jaw where a graze burned red.
Bizo: “We held them,”
he said, voice rough but sure. I nodded,
swallowing the tremor in my throat. The baby
kicked again — alive, stubborn, ery. My
phone buzzed. A message from Zakhe: “On
my way. Hold tight.” Hope flared. But the
streets were still burning. And the war wasn’t
over. I pressed the gun to my side, chest tight
but unbroken. For the rst time, I felt it clearly
— this was no longer just survival. It was
legacy.

CHAPTER 54
The streets had barely stopped humming
from the last ght when whispers started
spreading — Mfundo Mshengu was coming.
His name carried weight, like a storm warning
in the wind. A man with a reputation sharp as
a blade and a hunger that never quit. I heard
it rst at the shisanyama, the way the older
men lowered their voices, eyes darting to the
shadows.
“Mfundo’s moving in,”
one said.
“Trying to claim what’s ours.”
Bizo didn’t waste time.
Bizo: “We need eyes on him, now,”
he said, his jaw tight. I nodded, my hand
resting on my belly. The baby kicked ercely
— a tiny warrior ready for a battle he hadn’t
yet seen. That night, the streets felt colder, as
if the city itself was holding its breath. Then
came the cars — sleek, black, moving like
ghosts through the township. Mfundo
Mshengu stepped out, tall, sharp, with eyes
that missed nothing. He walked like a king
surveying new land — his smile polite but
empty.
Mfundo: “We don’t want trouble,”
he said, voice smooth like silk over steel. But
trouble had already found us. And I knew,
deep in my bones, this was only the
beginning. Zakhe was still healing from the
last war, but Mfundo had re in his eyes —
and he wasn’t backing down. The chessboard
was set. And every move could burn the
whole city down. The night was thick with
smoke and whispers when Mfundo’s men
rolled through the township like a black tide.
Bizo watched them from the corner, eyes
narrowed, sts clenched.
Bizo: “They’re planting flags,”
he muttered, voice low and sharp.
Bizo: “Spray paint, stickers—territory
markers.”
I could feel it too, a chill crawling up my
spine. Mfundo wasn’t just coming for a piece
of land. He was coming for everything we
built. My phone buzzed. Zakhe’s name
flashed, but I ignored it. He needed rest. We
all did. Instead, I stood on the porch,
watching the street. The baby kicked ercely,
a heartbeat syncing with the rumble of
engines. I whispered,
Me: “This is your world, Zithulele. And it’s
going to burn for you.”
Suddenly, a shadow moved from the alley.
Bizo’s hand went to his gun, but I stopped
him.
Me: “It’s me,”
I said. He exhaled, relief crashing through
his tension.
Me: “We need a plan,”
I said. Bizo nodded.
Bizo: “We’ll hit their supply routes. Cut off
their power. Show Mfundo this isn’t a game.”
The air felt electric, charged with danger and
promise. Because this ght wasn’t just for the
streets anymore. It was for family. And I’d be
damned if we lost. Zakhe’s truck rolled down
the dusty street like a storm nally breaking.
His face was bruised, his eyes sharp but
tired. He’d been gone too long. I met him at
the gate, the weight of everything pressing
down on us both.
Me: “Mfundo’s here,”
I said, voice steady but low. Zakhe’s jaw
clenched.
Zakhe: “I know.”
He stepped inside, shedding his jacket like
armor.
Zakhe: “Did they make a move?”
Bizo nodded from behind me.
Bizo: “Planting flags, cutting supply lines.
They want a ght.”
Zakhe’s eyes darkened.
Zakhe: “Then we give them one.”
I reached for his hand, the way I always did
before the storm.
Me: “We protect the baby,”
I said. His ngers curled around mine.
Zakhe: “Always.”
The night thickened around us. Outside, the
city held its breath. And the war for our
legacy was just beginning. The air was
electric when Zakhe stepped out onto the
cracked pavement. His presence alone was a
challenge — a warning to anyone foolish
enough to test him. Mfundo Mshengu waited
under a flickering streetlight, flanked by his
crew. His smile was cold, his eyes
calculating.
Mfundo: “So, the infamous Zakhelikhaya
Zulu,”
Mfundo said smooth, voice cutting through
the tension.
Mfundo: “Back to protect your kingdom?”
Zakhe’s gaze didn’t waver.
Zakhe: “This is my home. Yours only if you
take it from me.”
Mfundo laughed, a sound like dry leaves
rustling.
Mfundo: “You’re tired. Your people are
shaken. The baby in your woman’s belly won’t
save you.”
Tholakele watched from the shadows, heart
pounding but steady. The re in Zakhe’s eyes
burned brighter than any threat. Zakhe
stepped forward, voice low and deadly.
Zakhe: “Underestimate me, and you’ll nd out
why we’re called the re that never dies.”
Mfundo’s smile faltered for a moment —
respect, fear, or maybe both flickered across
his face. The standoff stretched, heavy with
promise and peril. Then Mfundo nodded
once.
Mfundo: “So be it.”
Behind them, the city seemed to hold its
breath. The game had begun. The weight of
the standoff lingered long after Zakhe and
Mfundo’s words faded into the night. Back at
the house, the tension was thick—heavier
than the smoke drifting in from distant res. I
paced the small living room, mind racing.
Bizo pulled out a map, spreading it across the
table, ngers tracing routes and supply lines.
Bizo: “We hit their fuel depot rst,”
he said.
Bizo: “Cut off their power, and they’re blind.”
Zakhe rubbed his face, exhaustion shadowing
his features.
Zakhe: “This isn’t just a ght for land,”
he said quietly.
Zakhe: “It’s a test of who we are.”
I nodded, feeling the re inside me flare.
Me: “We’re more than ghters,”
I said.
Me: “We’re family. And I’m not just carrying a
child—I’m carrying our future.”
Bizo’s eyes softened.
Bizo: “We need to be smart. Not just erce.”
Plans were made. Calls were made. And as
dawn crept through the windows, I knew one
thing— The war for our streets was only just
beginning.

CHAPTER 55

The sun hadn’t yet risen, but the township

was already humming with quiet dread. Petrol
soaked the air, a sharp, choking scent that
clawed at my throat. Bizo and Zakhe moved
like shadows, their steps careful, eyes
scanning every corner.
Zakhe: “We strike tonight,”
Zakhe said, voice low, loaded with weight.
I watched from the window, hands trembling
despite the re burning inside me. The baby
kicked ercely, a tiny heartbeat pulsing
against my own. I whispered a prayer, ngers
clutching the necklace Zakhe gave me — a
small piece of hope in this storm. Paranoia
wrapped around us like a second skin. Every
knock on the door, every creak in the night
made me jump.Bizo checked the perimeter
twice, glancing nervously at his phone.
Bizo: “We can’t trust anyone,”
he muttered.
Bizo: “Mfundo’s eyes are everywhere.”
I nodded, feeling the walls close in. This
wasn’t just a battle of guns. It was a battle of
minds. Of faith. Of survival. As darkness
swallowed the streets, I lit a candle and
whispered, “Protect us.” Because tonight, the
re wasn’t just outside. It was inside us all.
Nightfall swallowed the township whole,
turning familiar streets into shadowed traps.
Zakhe and Bizo moved silently through the
alleys, the weight of their mission heavy in
every step. I stayed behind, heart pounding,
hands clenched around a prayer bead. The
petrol barrels sat like ticking bombs in the
hidden yard — silent, deadly. Bizo lit a match,
his face bathed in a brief, erce glow. The
flame caught the petrol-soaked rags. Flames
roared to life, swallowing the night, painting
the sky with orange fury. But as the re
spread, so did the paranoia. Shouts pierced
the air — gun re answered them. From my
window, I could see shadows darting, hear
curses and prayers tangled in the chaos. I
whispered again,
Me: “Keep us safe.”
And then— A sharp knock at the door. My
breath caught. Was it one of ours? Or
Mfundo’s eyes watching from the darkness? I
reached for Zakhe’s gun, muscles tense. This
war was no longer just outside. It was inside
every door, every heartbeat. Every prayer.
Every shadow. My hand hovered over the
gun, ngers trembling. The knock came
again—sharp, insistent.
Voice: “Thola?”
The voice was soft, unfamiliar. I swallowed
hard, stepping toward the door, every nerve
screaming danger.
Me: “Who is it?”
I demanded, voice steadier than I felt.
Voice: “Please, it’s Mfundo’s brother,”
the voice said quickly.
Voice: “I’m not here to ght. I want to talk.”
The silence stretched, heavy and thick. I
glanced at the candle flickering on the table,
shadows dancing like restless ghosts. Bizo
appeared behind me, eyes dark and wary.
Bizo: “Open it carefully,”
 he warned. With a deep breath, I cracked the
door just enough. A young man, face pale
and eyes desperate, stood there.
Him: “I’m tired of this war,”
he whispered.
Him: “There’s a way out. But it has to start
with a truce.”
I looked back at Bizo, then down at my belly.
The baby kicked again—a small heartbeat,
erce and alive. This war had already taken
too much. Maybe… just maybe… this was
the chance to save what mattered. But trust
was a weapon sharper than any gun. And
right now, the streets were watching. I stared
at the young man, his face pale under the
flickering candlelight, eyes searching mine for
something—mercy, maybe, or a lifeline.
Me: “Why should I believe you?”
I asked, voice sharp, every word a blade. He
swallowed, trembling.
Him: “Because I’m done with the blood.
Mfundo... he’s reckless. He’s going to destroy
us all if we don’t stop him.”
Bizo stepped forward, hand never leaving his
gun.
Bizo: “What do you want from us?”
Him: “A truce. A chance to talk. To nd peace
before more bodies fall.”
I glanced down at my belly, the steady kicks
like a heartbeat against the chaos.
Me: “This war,”
I whispered,
Me: “is bigger than us. But so is survival.”
The young man nodded quickly.
Him: “Give me one chance. That’s all I ask.”
I closed the door slowly, the lock clicking
behind him.
Me: “We’re listening,”
I said. But deep inside, I knew— Trust would
come at a price. And the streets never forgot.

CHAPTER 56

The moon hung low, casting cold silver over

the restless streets. Zakhe stood on the
rooftop, eyes burning into the dark like twin
flames. He’d heard the whispers—seen the
cracks forming in the fragile truce.
This war wasn’t over. It never would be. His
phone buzzed—Bizo’s name flashing.
He answered, voice sharp.
Bizo: “They’re testing us,”
Bizo said.
Bizo: “Mfundo’s men are moving faster than
we thought.”
Zakhe clenched his jaw.
Zakhe: “Tell Thola to be careful. This ght...
it’s going to demand everything.”
He dropped the phone and looked out over
the city.
Zakhe: “My nal warning,”
he muttered.
Zakhe: “If they want war, they’ll get it.”
And when the re came, only the ercest
would survive. I found Zakhe standing in the
dim light of the living room, the weight of the
city etched deep into his furrowed brow. His
eyes met mine—hard, erce, unyielding.
Zakhe: “This isn’t just about territory
anymore,”
he said, voice low but erce.
Zakhe: “It’s about what we leave behind.”
I nodded, feeling the baby kick ercely, like a
tiny warrior echoing his father’s fury.
Zakhe: “You have to be careful,”
Zakhe continued, stepping closer.
Zakhe: “Mfundo won’t stop until he burns
everything down.”
My hand found his, steady and sure.
Me: “We protect our family,”
I said, voice steady despite the storm raging
inside me.
Me: “No matter what.”
Zakhe’s grip tightened.
Zakhe: “This is my nal warning,”
he said.
Zakhe: “If they think they can take us down,
they don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
Outside, the streets whispered—danger,
promise, and a re that would never die. The
silence after Zakhe’s words was heavy—thick
enough to choke on. Bizo paced nearby, eyes
sharp, already running through the plan in his
mind.
Bizo: “We move at dawn,”
he said, voice low.
Bizo: “Hit Mfundo’s supply lines before he
can fully settle in.”
Zakhe nodded, muscles taut like coiled steel.
Zakhe: “I want every man ready,”
he growled.
Zakhe: “No mistakes.”
I looked down at my belly — Zithulele was
restless, as if sensing the battle ahead.
Me: “We’ll protect him,”
I whispered.
Me: “We have to.”
Zakhe’s gaze softened for a brief moment.
Zakhe: “No matter what,”
he promised. Outside, the city held its breath.
And somewhere in the shadows, Mfundo’s
eyes gleamed, waiting. The nal war was on
the horizon. And this time, there would be no
turning back. That night, the house was thick
with a silence heavier than any gunshot.
Zakhe sat by the window, staring out at the
dark streets like he was daring the enemy to
come. I wrapped my arms around my belly,
feeling the soft kicks — small reminders of
hope in this storm.
Zakhe: “Thola,”
Zakhe’s voice broke the quiet.
Zakhe: “Whatever happens tomorrow… you
and the baby come rst.”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Me: “We survive,”
I whispered.
Me: “We always do.”
He stood, walking over to me with a steady
calm that belied the storm inside.
Zakhe: “I’m not just ghting for the streets
anymore,”
he said, voice low.
Zakhe: “I’m ghting for you… for us.”
We held each other, the night pressing in
around us. Outside, the city was still, but the
re was coming. And when it hit— There
would be no mercy.

CHAPTER 57
The dawn broke blood-red, painting the sky
with streaks of re. I stood by the cracked
window, the weight of the day pressing down
on me like a storm. Today was supposed to
be different. Today, I was meant to wear white.
A dress for a new beginning. But the streets
had other plans. Zakhe was gone before
sunrise, leading the charge with Bizo and the
others. I stayed behind, heart tangled in fear
and hope, the baby moving softly inside
me—a small beacon of life in the chaos. The
red building stood on the corner—a place we
once called safe. Now, it was the battle eld.
Sirens wailed in the distance, and the rst
shots rang out like a cruel bell toll. I wrapped
the white dress tighter around my trembling
arms, a ghost of the peace I longed for. And
then— A gure appeared in the smoke.
Zakhe. Bloodied, erce, but alive. His eyes
locked on me, a silent promise amidst the
re. The war was far from over. But in that
moment— We were more than the streets.
We were family. Gun re cracked like thunder
around the red building, echoing off the walls
stained with smoke and memories. I clutched
the white dress tighter, the fabric soaked with
sweat and dust, but I didn’t move. The baby
kicked ercely, a tiny heartbeat matching the
rapid beat of my own. Through the smoke, I
saw Zakhe’s silhouette—like a shadow carved
from re. He moved with deadly precision,
his voice low and commanding as he rallied
the men.
Zakhe: “Hold the line! No one breaks
through!”
Bizo fought by his side, both warriors carved
from the same relentless stone. Suddenly, a
grenade exploded nearby, sending a shower
of sparks and debris. I fell to my knees, heart
pounding, hands trembling. But then Zakhe’s
voice cut through the chaos, calling my
name. I looked up, meeting his erce gaze.
Zakhe: “Stay strong, Thola,”
he shouted over the roar.
Zakhe: “For us.”
Tears mixed with sweat as I whispered back,
Me: “Always.”
The red building burned around us, but in
that white dress— I was unbreakable. The
smoke hung heavy in the air, wrapping
around the red building like a shroud. The
battle had left its scars—walls cracked,
windows shattered, and the smell of burnt
rubber lingering like a bitter memory. I
stumbled forward, the white dress torn but
still clinging to me like a second skin. Zakhe
was there, kneeling beside a fallen comrade,
blood smeared across his cheek, eyes erce
but tired. He looked up when he saw me, and
for a moment, the chaos faded. He reached
out, pulling me close.
Zakhe: “We survived,”
he breathed, voice rough but certain. I rested
my head against his chest, hearing the steady
beat of his heart — a promise in the silence.
Me: “Not just survived,”
I whispered.
Me: “We’re still standing.”
Around us, the city groaned but held on.
And in that ruined red building, in that torn
white dress, I knew— Our ght was far from
over. But so was our love. The dust settled
like a heavy curtain, muffling the distant
echoes of gun re. Zakhe held me close, his
breath warm against my hair, grounding me
amidst the ruins. I traced the blood on his
cheek with trembling ngers — a battle scar
and a badge of survival.
Zakhe: “Tomorrow,”
he whispered, voice raw,
Zakhe: “we rebuild. Not just the streets… us.”
My heart swelled, the baby inside kicking
strong, a erce heartbeat mirroring our own.
Me: “I’m ready,”
I said, voice steady despite the tears that
slipped down my cheeks. He pulled me
tighter, his lips brushing my forehead.
Zakhe: “In this war, and in this life — we ght
together.”
The white dress hung torn but proud, a
symbol of strength woven with every scar,
every flame. Outside, the sun began to rise
— a promise painted in pink and gold. And in
that fragile dawn, I knew— We were
unbreakable. The early light crept through
shattered windows, catching the dust in
golden beams. Zakhe held me tight, as if
letting go meant losing everything we’d
fought for. I pressed my hand against his
chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart
beneath my palm. A battle-weary king, but
still standing. We had lost much. The red
building was scarred, but it still stood — like
us.
Zakhe: “I promise,”
Zakhe whispered, voice cracking just a little,
Zakhe: “this city will heal. And so will we.”
Tears slipped free, but they were not just for
the pain. They were for the re that refused to
die. The white dress, torn and stained, was no
longer just fabric. It was our battle flag. And
with Zakhe beside me, I knew: No matter
what the streets threw our way, We would
rise. Together. The city’s heartbeat slowed, the
echo of gun re fading into a haunting silence.
Zakhe pulled me close, his breath steadying
mine.
Zakhe: “Look at me,”
he said, voice soft but commanding. I met his
eyes, erce and unwavering.
Zakhe: “In this war, I promise — you and the
baby come rst.”
I nodded, tears spilling freely now. The white
dress, torn and stained, was a symbol not of
defeat, but of resilience. We stood among the
ruins, battered but unbroken. Outside, the
rst birds sang — a fragile song of hope. And
as the sun rose, casting light over the red
building, I knew: No matter the re, no matter
the ght — We would stand. We would
survive. Because this was our home. Our
legacy. Our love.
CHAPTER 58
NARRATED
The night was colder than any before. Zakhe
sat alone on the rooftop, city lights flickering
beneath him like dying stars. His body
ached—not just from battle wounds, but from
the war inside. He rubbed the scar on his
side, ngers trembling. Blood, sweat, and
promises. He had fought to protect
everything—Tholakele, the baby, the
streets—but the cost was crushing. A
whisper floated through the air, the ghost of
every fallen friend, every broken vow. Zakhe’s
eyes closed. The end was coming. And deep
down, he knew— He might not survive the
dawn. But if this was the end— He would
face it like the re he was.
Unyielding.
Unbroken.
The sharp pain in Zakhe’s chest was no
stranger. Each breath came harder than the
last, but his mind stayed sharp — razor-
focused on what mattered most. His ngers
curled around the pendant I had given him —
a small token of hope, of home. His thoughts
were a storm of memories — Gogo Deli’s
wise eyes, Bizo’s erce loyalty, my soft
strength. He whispered my name like a
prayer.
Zakhe: “Thola… hold on.”
The shadows crept closer, but Zakhe’s re still
burned deep inside. The streets had marked
him — but he would not be broken. If this
was his nal hour, he’d leave it all behind for
one thing— His family. A single tear slipped
down his cheek as he prepared to face the
end with every ounce of courage left.

CHAPTER 59
Zakhe’s POV

The city felt different tonight. Heavier. Like the

air was holding its breath — waiting. I stood
on the rooftop, the wind cutting through my
clothes, cold and sharp. My body ached from
the ght, but it was more than that. I could
feel it deep inside — the re was burning
lower, the storm nearing its end. I pulled out
my phone, staring at her name — Tholakele.
The thought of her, of the baby, was both my
strength and my curse. I wanted to see the
dawn with them. But the streets had other
plans. A whisper in the dark — footsteps too
close, a shadow that didn’t belong. I reached
for my gun, steadying my breath. This was
the nal warning. The end. And I was ready.
The night swallowed sound except for the
distant hum of the city — and my own
heartbeat, loud in my ears. I tightened my
grip on the gun, every nerve sharp, every
muscle coiled. This was more than survival. It
was about legacy. About the promise I made
to Thola, to our son. Flashbacks hit me—her
face in the morning light, the way her hand t
perfectly in mine, the stubborn kick of our
child inside her belly. They were my armor. A
reason to ght. But the footsteps came closer.
No warning this time. Only the cold barrel of
betrayal. I turned, red, but the bullet grazed
past. Pain exploded in my side. I staggered,
breath ragged. This was it. The streets closing
in. But I wasn’t going down without a ght.
Not for my family. Not for my name. I aimed
again, every breath a prayer, every shot a
message: You don’t break the Zulu. Pain
seared through my side, hot and sharp like
re licking my skin. I stumbled but didn’t fall.
The street was dark, but my vision burned
with clarity — every heartbeat loud, every
breath precious. I saw them coming —
shadows moving with cold intent. I raised my
gun one last time, ngers trembling but
steady.

Thola’s POV
The night stretched on, heavy with silence
that screamed louder than any gunshot. I
waited by the window, heart thudding like a
drum, every shadow a threat. When the door
nally creaked open, I held my breath. Zakhe
stumbled inside, blood dark on his shirt, eyes
wild but alive.
Zakhe: “Thola…”
His voice cracked, raw and ragged. I dropped
everything, rushing to him, hands trembling
as I pulled him close.
Me: “You’re here,”
I whispered, tears burning my skin. He
gritted his teeth, pain flashing across his face.
Zakhe: “They came for me,”
he said, voice low.
Zakhe: “But I’m not done. Not yet.”
I pressed my hand to his wound, feeling the
heat, the life still ghting inside him.
Me: “Hold on,”
I begged.
Me: “For us. For Zithulele.”
He nodded, eyes closing for a moment. But
when they opened again, they were erce—
determined.
Zakhe: “Don’t forget my name, Tholakele,”
he said.
Zakhe: “Because I’m coming back.”
And I believed him. Because he was more
than a man. He was a storm. A re. My king. I
guided Zakhe to the couch, careful but swift.
Blood stained my hands as I pressed a cloth
to the wound, heart pounding like a drum in
my chest.
Me: “Stay with me,”
I whispered, voice trembling. His eyes met
mine, erce but fading for a moment.
Zakhe: “Thola…”
he murmured.
Zakhe: “You’re my strength.”
Outside, the distant echoes of sirens and
shouting reminded me the streets hadn’t
forgotten their war. I moved to barricade the
doors, every knock sending my heart into
overdrive. Bizo was on his way — I could feel
it. But until then, it was just Zakhe and me.
The baby kicked again, strong and wild. Life
pushing through the chaos. Zakhe’s grip
tightened on my hand, a silent promise.
Zakhe: “We survive this,”
he said, voice raw but unbroken. I nodded,
tears blurring my vision.
Zakhe: “For us. For our son.”
And in that moment, I knew. No matter what
came next…We would ght. Together. The
knocks came again—this time louder, more
urgent. My heart slammed in my chest as I
moved to the window. Bizo’s gure appeared,
cutting through the darkness like a lifeline. I
threw open the door before he could knock
again.
Bizo: “Zakhe?”
Bizo’s eyes widened at the sight of him,
bloodied but breathing.
Me: “He’s hurt bad,”
I said, voice shaking. Bizo didn’t waste a
second.
Me: “We need to get him patched up. Fast.”
Zakhe tried to protest, but his strength was
fading. I supported him as Bizo applied
pressure to the wound, hands steady despite
the chaos.
Bizo: “We’re not letting this end here,”
Bizo growled, eyes scanning the street.
Outside, shadows moved—enemy scouts no
doubt, circling like vultures. I looked down at
my belly, feeling our son kick ercely—as if
he too was ghting. Zakhe caught my gaze,
pain and determination swirling in his eyes.
Zakhe: “Hold on,”
he whispered.
Zakhe: “I’m not nished.”
The night crackled with tension as Bizo
moved swiftly, checking Zakhe’s wounds.
Bizo: “We don’t have long,”
he muttered, eyes sharp on the shadows
lurking beyond the gate. Suddenly, headlights
cut through the darkness—cars rolling in,
engines low but erce. Zakhe’s crew, riding
hard and fast. The gates rattled under the
pounding of boots and shouts.
Me: “We’re not alone,”
I whispered, hope sparking in my chest.
Zakhe’s hand found mine, squeezing tight.
Zakhe: “Stay close,”
he said, voice rough but commanding. The
reinforcements poured in, guns raised, eyes
blazing. The enemy’s scouts retreated, but the
battle was far from over. Tonight was survival.
Tomorrow—revenge. And through it all, I held
onto Zakhe, the re in his eyes burning
brighter than any gun.
Zakhe: “We ght for tomorrow,”
he said.
Zakhe: “For us.”

CHAPTER 60
The house was quieter than I’d ever known it.
Gogo Deli lay in her bed, frail and pale, her
breath shallow like a fading wind. The room
smelled of herbs and sorrow. I sat by her
side, holding her weathered hand, feeling the
life slip through her ngers. Her eyes
fluttered open, a soft smile breaking through
the pain.
Gogo: “Tholakele,”
she whispered, voice thin but steady.
Gogo: “I’m proud of you, my child.”
Tears burned my cheeks.
Gogo: “Please… don’t carry my pain,”
she said, squeezing my hand weakly. But
how could I not? Gogo had been our rock—
our queen. She who held the family together
with stories, love, and strength. I knew the
truth—poison. A rival crew’s silent war. The
betrayal cut deeper than any gunshot. Gogo’s
breath hitched. I leaned closer, whispering
prayers, begging the ancestors for mercy. Her
last words lingered in the air, fragile and
erce:
Gogo: “Keep the re burning… for all of us.”
And then— Her eyes closed. The house
mourned. But I vowed— Her legacy would
live. Through me. Through Zakhe. Through
Zithulele. The re was ours now. And it would
never die. The sun was low, casting long
shadows over the small yard where we laid
Gogo to rest. The air was thick with grief and
the smell of burning incense. Family and
friends gathered, faces heavy with sorrow and
quiet rage. I stood at the front, clutching a
handful of soil, the same soil that had held
her spirit for all these years. Zakhe’s hand
found mine, strong and steady.
Zakhe: “We lost a queen,”
he said softly.
Zakhe:“But her spirit is ours to carry.”
The women sang traditional songs, voices
rising and falling like waves—honoring the
queen who had raised us. I looked around,
seeing the flicker of re in each eye, the silent
promise to keep ghting. Gogo’s favorite
shawl was draped over the cof n, vibrant
even in death. As the dirt covered her, I
whispered,
Me: “We will keep the re burning, Gogo.”
And I meant it. Because in the ashes of loss,
we would nd our strength. Our purpose. Our
path forward. The funeral re had barely
cooled when the streets started whispering
again. Rival crews testing boundaries.
Shadows moving with dangerous intent.
I could feel Zakhe’s fury simmering beneath
his calm.
Zakhe: “We can’t let this slide,” he said, sts
clenched tight.
Bizo nodded, eyes sharp.
Bizo: “They want war, they’ll get it. But we
decide when and how.”
I looked down at my belly, a erce
protectiveness rising in me. Gogo’s death was
a message—a warning. But we weren’t the
ones to back down. Not now. Not ever. The
crew gathered, voices low but determined.
Plans formed in the smoke and shadows.
Gogo’s legacy wasn’t just memories. It was a
call to arms. And we answered. In the dim
light of the shisanyama, the crew gathered—
faces hardened, eyes burning with purpose.
Zakhe stood at the center, voice steady but
erce.
Zakhe: “Gogo Deli was more than a queen.
She was our heart. And anyone who thinks
they can take her down will feel the full
weight of our re.”
I watched him, pride swelling in my chest
despite the ache of loss. Bizo spread out
maps and marked rival territories with sharp,
deliberate strokes.
Bizo: “We hit their supply routes rst,”
he said.
Bizo: “Cut off their weapons, their fuel—leave
them crippled.”
Zakhe nodded.
Zakhe: “Then we make sure they know—this
isn’t just a ght. It’s a war for our soul.”
I placed my hand on my belly, feeling
Zithulele’s tiny kicks like a pulse of hope.
Me: “We ght not just for ourselves,”
I said quietly,
Me: “but for the future.”
The men looked at me, respect and resolve
mingling in their eyes. Zakhe caught my gaze
and squeezed my shoulder.
Zakhe: “This is our ght,”
he said.
Zakhe: “And we will win.”

CHAPTER 61
Sli’s POV
The walls of the old house seemed to close
in on me as I sat across from Tholakele. Her
eyes searched mine, erce and unforgiving. It
was time. The truth I had buried for years
clawed its way to the surface, raw and aching.
Me: “Tholakele,”
I began, voice trembling.
Me: “There are things you don’t know. Things
I should have told you long ago.”
She leaned forward, every muscle taut with
anticipation.
Me: “I’ve kept secrets to protect you—to
protect this family.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks.
Me: “But now, the walls are crumbling. And
the lies… they’re too heavy.”
I told her about the choices I made, the
sacri ces, the betrayals hidden in silence.
How the poison that took Gogo Deli wasn’t
just a random act. It was a war within our
own blood.
Me: “I never wanted this for you,”
I said.
Me: “But some battles… they start at home.”
Tholakele’s sts clenched.
Thola: “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Me: “Because I was scared,”
I admitted.
Me: “Scared of losing you, of losing
everything.”
Her eyes softened, but the hurt remained.
Thola: “We have to face this now,”
she said.
Thola: “Together.”
And in that moment, a fragile bridge formed
between us—built on pain, truth, and the
desperate hope for healing.
Thola’s POV
I stared at my mother, the pieces of her
confession settling like heavy stones in my
chest. Blood in the family. Betrayal beneath
the roof that was supposed to keep me safe.
Me: “Why didn’t you ght it?”
I asked, voice barely above a whisper. She
wiped her tears, trembling.
Mama: “I did, in my own way. But sometimes,
the enemy wears your face.”
The silence between us was thick, lled with
years of unspoken pain.
Me: “I thought Gogo’s death was just another
street war,”
I admitted,
Me: “but now... it feels like poison in the
blood.”
Slindile nodded.
Mama: “Because it was.”
I clenched my sts, anger and heartbreak
burning through me.
Me: “We need to be ready,”
I said, voice erce.
Me: “For those who hide in the shadows.”
My mother reached out, her hand warm on
mine.
Mama: “We’re stronger together, Thola. The
truth is painful—but it’s also our weapon.”
I took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of
legacy settle on my shoulders. This family—
our family—was a battle eld. But it was also
our greatest strength. And I was ready to
ght. Later that night, I found Zakhe sitting
alone on the porch, the city’s distant lights
flickering like broken promises. I took a deep
breath and sat beside him, the heaviness of
my mother’s words burning inside me.
Me: “Zakhe,”
I said softly,
Me: “there’s something you need to know.”
He looked at me, eyes steady but alert.
Me: “I learned the truth about Gogo’s death. It
wasn’t just a rival crew. It was a poison from
within our own circle.”
His jaw clenched, sts tightening on his
knees.
Zakhe: “Blood betrayal,”
he growled.
Zakhe: “That cuts deeper than any bullet.”
I nodded, feeling the re inside him ignite.
Me: “We can’t trust everyone. The enemy is
closer than we thought.”
Zakhe stood, his silhouette sharp against the
night.
Zakhe: “We’ll root them out. And when we
do… there will be no mercy.”
That night, the crew gathered, tension thick in
the air. Whispers of suspicion and anger
sparked like dry tinder. But beneath it all, one
truth united us: Family wasn’t just who we
chose—it was who survived. And we were
ready to ght for ours. The room was thick
with smoke and suspicion as we gathered
around the table. Zakhe’s eyes scanned every
face—every shadow hiding a secret.
Zakhe: “Someone poisoned Gogo,”
he said, voice low and cold.
Zakhe: “And that someone is still here.”
Bizo slammed his st down.
Bizo: “No one leaves. We nd the snake.”
Whispers broke out — accusations, denials,
silence. I caught Qiniselani’s gaze—too quick
to look away. My heart clenched.
Me: “We’ll search everything,”
I said, voice steady but erce.
Mee: “Every place, every person.”
The crew nodded, some eager, some wary.
The war wasn’t just outside anymore. It was
inside. And the deeper we dug, the darker the
truth would become.

CHAPTER 62
Zakhe’s POV
The night was cold, but my blood burned hot
with a re that wouldn’t die. I stood over the
lifeless body, the gun still warm in my hand.
The man who betrayed us. Who threatened
everything I loved. I didn’t hesitate. Because
this was for her — for Tholakele. For our
future. I killed for her. Not out of hate, but
love. The kind that scars your soul. Every
shot echoed with a promise: No one hurts my
family and walks away. I looked at the
darkness, my heart heavy but resolute. This
was my war. My burden. And I would carry it
— even if it meant losing myself. The silence
after the shots was suffocating. I dropped the
gun, hands shaking, the cold night air biting
through my skin. The man lay still — a traitor,
yes — but also a piece of the puzzle I wished
I didn’t have to break. Blood on my hands,
but I didn’t flinch. Because this was the line.
The moment everything changed. I knew the
crew would feel it too — the shift from
survival to vengeance. When I told Thola, I
saw the re in her eyes. Not just fear — but a
erce understanding.
Thola: “We protect what’s ours,”
she said, voice steady. I nodded. But deep
inside, I wondered— How much of me was
left to protect? How many more lines would I
cross? Because in this war— Love and blood
were one and the same.

Thola’s POV

Zakhe’s words hung in the air, thick and

heavy.
Zakhe: “I killed for you.”
I wanted to shout, to cry, to tell him it wasn’t
his burden alone. But instead, I reached for
his hand, squeezing it tight.
Me: “I know,”
I whispered. And I felt it—the raw edge of his
love, sharp and dangerous. We both knew the
war wasn’t over. That every choice came with
a cost. But in that moment, surrounded by
shadows and pain, I chose him. Chosen to
stand beside him. To carry this re together.
Because love wasn’t just soft words and
gentle touch. Sometimes, love was the
hardest ght of all. Word spread fast—Zakhe’s
confession hit the crew like a thunderclap.
Some nodded with grim understanding,
others whispered behind clenched jaws. Bizo
stepped forward, voice low but erce.
Bizo: “We’re family. And family protects
family.”
Phindile’s eyes burned with loyalty.
Phindi: “We’ll stand behind Zakhe. No one
breaks our circle.”
But Qiniselani’s glance was colder,
calculating. Not everyone was ready to
forgive. The walls were closing in, but we
stood tall, united by blood and re.
Zakhe’s sacri ce was a warning— We were
ready to ght. And we would not fall.

CHAPTER 63

The call came like a slap — sharp, urgent,

impossible to ignore.
Voice: “Thola, it’s Bawi… she’s been
attacked.”
My heart stopped. I dropped everything,
rushing through the streets, every second a
lifetime. When I found her—lying still, pale,
blood seeping through her torn shirt—I fell to
my knees. Her eyes fluttered open, lled with
fear and pain.
Bawi: “Thola…”
she whispered, voice barely there. I gripped
her hand, tears blurring my vision.
Me: “You’re not going anywhere,”
I promised. The world blurred around us—
sirens, voices, chaos—but all I could focus
on was saving her. Because if Bawi fell,
everything else would crumble. And I wasn’t
ready to lose her. The sterile smell of the
hospital hit me like a wave as I paced the
waiting room, hands clenched tight. Doctors
moved swiftly in and out, their faces grim but
professional. I couldn’t stop replaying Bawi’s
last words—so fragile, so full of ght.
Nurse: “Thola…”
A nurse nally approached, eyes soft but
serious.
Nurse: “She’s stable... for now.”
I let out a shaky breath, relief and fear tangled
in my chest. Memories flooded back—Bawi’s
laugh, her erce loyalty, the way she stood by
me through every storm. I sat beside her
bed, holding her hand, willing her to ght
harder.
Me: “This isn’t the end,”
I whispered.
Me: “Not for you. Not for us.”
The line between life and death blurred, but I
refused to let go. Because Bawi was more
than my best friend. She was family. And
family fought to survive. The hours dragged,
every beep of the machines a reminder of
how fragile life was. Then—her eyelids
fluttered. Slowly. Painfully. I leaned in close,
tears streaming.
Me: “Bawi? Can you hear me?”
Her eyes locked on mine, shimmering with
pain but alive.
Bawi: “I’m here,”
she whispered, voice raw. A shaky smile
broke through the agony.
Me: “We made it,”
I said, gripping her hand tighter. She tried to
laugh, a weak but erce sound.
Bawi: “This isn’t over,”
she said.
Bawi: “But neither am I.”
And in that moment, hope burned brighter
than any darkness. The hospital room was
quiet except for our breaths. Bawi’s hand
trembled slightly in mine, but her eyes held
that erce re I knew so well.
Me: “You scared me,”
I whispered, voice thick with emotion. She
smirked weakly.
Bawi: “Had to make sure you felt the panic.
Can’t have you getting too comfortable.”
I chuckled through tears, the weight lifting
just a bit.
Me: “We’re not done,”
I said rmly.
Me: “You’re coming back stronger.”
Bawi nodded, swallowing hard.
Bawi: “I owe you that.”
We shared a look—one forged in years of
loyalty, battles, and unspoken promises.
Outside, the war raged on, but here— In this
moment— We were survivors. And nothing
would break us. Bawi’s breath hitched, her
eyes erce despite the pain.
Bawi: “I’m not just ghting for me,”
she said
Bawi:. “I’m ghting for you… for Zakhe… for
all of us.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of her words
settle deep inside me.
Me: “We survive,”
I promised.
Me: “And when this storm passes, we
rebuild.”
Her lips curved into a tired but de ant smile.
Bawi: “Together.”
The machines beeped steadily, a quiet
heartbeat amid the chaos. Outside, the streets
burned with rage and revenge. But in this
room, hope flickered. And it was enough.

CHAPTER 64
Fireboy’s POV

The city never sleeps, but tonight—it felt like

it was holding its breath. I gripped the
steering wheel tight, the roar of the engine a
familiar friend and enemy. This was my last
spin. No more games. No more running. The
crew needed me—needed me alive. But the
weight in my chest told me the streets had
other plans. Every corner hid a shadow, every
street whispered danger. I pushed the pedal
harder, chasing freedom and fate all at once.
If this was the end— I’d make it count.
For Thola.
For Zakhe.
For all of us.
Because legends don’t die quietly. We go out
with a roar. The engine screamed beneath
me, tires biting into the asphalt as I weaved
through the city’s dark veins. Sirens wailed in
the distance — a chorus of chaos chasing my
every move. I could feel the weight of every
pair of eyes watching, waiting. This wasn’t just
a ride. It was a message. A nal stand. My
heart hammered against my ribs, but my grip
never faltered. I thought of Thola’s erce gaze,
Zakhe’s steady strength, Bawi’s unbreakable
spirit. I wasn’t just riding for myself. I was
riding for them. The spin came fast—too fast.
A sharp curve, a flash of headlights, and—
The world tilted. The world spun faster than
my wheels. Metal screamed against metal.
Glass shattered into a million stars. Pain
exploded through my body like re. But even
as darkness crept in, my mind was sharp—
thinking of the crew, of Thola, of Zakhe.
This wasn’t how it ended.
Not for me.
Not for us.
I fought to stay awake, every breath a battle.
The city’s noise faded to silence. But my heart
kept beating—a stubborn drum of de ance.
Because even in the darkest spin, legends
leave a mark. And mine was far from over.
The news hit like a bullet—Fireboy was down.
Chaos erupted among the crew. Bizo
slammed his st against the wall.
Bizo: “We need to move. Now.”
Tholakele’s phone trembled in her hand as
she dialed, desperation burning in her eyes.
Thola: “We’re going to get him,”
she promised, voice erce. At the hospital,
the waiting room felt like a cage. Every tick of
the clock a reminder of how fragile life was.
Then—a doctor emerged, face grave but not
without hope.
Doc: “He’s stable… but it’s going to be a long
road.”
Thola exhaled, tears slipping free.
Thola: “We ght,”
she whispered.
Thola: “For Fireboy. For all of us.”

The sterile white light above blurred as I

blinked my eyes open. Pain shot through my
body, sharp and relentless. But then—voices.
Familiar. Warm. Tholakele’s hand clasped
mine, steady and strong.
Thola: “Fireboy,”
she whispered, relief flooding her voice. I
squeezed her hand weakly, a small smile
breaking through the haze.
Me: “I’m still here,”
I rasped. Tears spilled down her cheeks, a
mix of joy and fear.
Thola: “We thought we lost you,”
she said, voice shaking. I swallowed hard,
ghting back the darkness.
Me: “Not yet,”
I said. And in that moment, surrounded by
love and pain, I knew— The last spin wasn’t
the end. It was the beginning of something
new.

CHAPTER 65
The room was heavy with silence, thick like
smoke. Zakhe’s eyes held a storm— erce,
vulnerable, and burning with a love that
refused to fade. I reached out, trembling, and
touched his cheek.
Me: “This might be our last moment,”
I whispered. He smiled, bitter but soft.
Zakhe: “No,”
he said.
Zakhe: “It’s never the last if we carry each
other in our hearts.”
Our lips met—soft at rst, then erce. A kiss
that held every unspoken word, every broken
promise, every desperate hope. It was
goodbye and forever all at once. When we
nally pulled apart, tears blurred my vision.
Zakhe: “Remember me,”
he said, voice raw.
Me: “I will,”
I promised. And as he slipped away into the
night, I felt the weight of a love that burned
beyond time. Zakhe’s ngers lingered on my
skin, a silent promise etched in every touch.
Zakhe: “I have to do this,”
he said, voice low but steady.
Zakhe: “For us. For the family.”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Zakhe: “I’m coming back,”
 he promised, though the doubt flickered in
his eyes. He kissed my forehead, lingering
like it was the last time. Then, with one last
look, he stepped into the shadows—into the
storm waiting for him. I watched him go,
heart breaking and burning all at once.
Because sometimes love means letting go.
Even when your soul screams to hold on. The
city swallowed Zakhe’s gure as he
disappeared into the night, a lone warrior
stepping into the unknown. I stood by the
window, the weight of his absence heavy on
my chest. Every minute stretched, a painful
eternity of waiting. I held Zithulele close,
whispering prayers into the silence. Outside,
the streets murmured with danger. Inside, my
heart fought between hope and fear.
Zakhe’s kiss lingered on my lips—a reminder
that love is both armor and vulnerability. I
whispered into the dark, “Come back to me.”
And somewhere in the shadows, I knew he
heard me. The night stretched endlessly, each
second heavy with silence. I lit a candle, its
flickering flame a fragile beacon against the
dark. Zithulele stirred gently inside me, a
small reminder of life moving forward. I
traced Zakhe’s name in the air, a silent prayer
carried on the wind. Though he was gone
into the re, part of me went with him—
steady, erce, unyielding. I closed my eyes,
breathing in the memory of his kiss. And I
promised— No matter what came next, I
would be ready.
For love.
For war.
For the re that bound us all.

CHAPTER 66

The wind that morning was cruel. It howled

through the valley like it was mourning with
us. Like even God Himself couldn’t bring
himself to silence it. KwaZulu-Natal skies
were grey. Ashy. Like the heavens had been
scorched by the same re that took him from
me. There was no casket. No white rose on
satin. No mother’s last kiss on her son’s
forehead. No body to say goodbye to. Just a
framed picture of Zakhelikhaya Zulu—
His eyes frozen in time, his smile arrogant,
his chain glinting like sin. And a bulletproof
vest lying across the altar like an offering.
They buried his name, not his body. Bawi
stood beside me, still bruised from what
almost took her. She held my hand the entire
time, like she knew I’d collapse if she let go.
And maybe I would have. The Mthembu twins
from Zakhe’s crew gave a broken speech.
Mfundo Mshengu stood back, arms folded,
shades on, tears invisible but heavy in the air.
Lindo wept like he lost a brother. Because he
did. Fireboy’s mother sat in silence, having
buried her son two days earlier. They tried to
sing “Lala ngoxolo.” But the streets don’t
know lullabies. They only know war cries.
And behind me, I could feel it—retaliation
brewing like a storm waiting for permission.
Slindile sat alone. My mother. His secret. His
pain. Her ghosted eyes stared into the soil. I
stood last. Everyone was waiting for me to
say something. Anything. I walked to the
front. I looked down at the picture of the man
who had ruined and resurrected me. My
voice cracked as I whispered:
Me: “You were mine. In blood. In re. In
silence. In love. I’ll carry your war and wear
your name until the end of me.”
Then I took off my necklace—his bullet
pendant. And I placed it on the vest. There
was no body. But there was a legacy. And that
day, it was buried alive. The ground was dry,
cracked from too many secrets buried in it.
People said their goodbyes in silence, one by
one. No church choir. No priest. Just a street
preacher with an AK on his lap and a Bible in
his hand. He said:
Pastor: “Zakhelikhaya was a lion. But lions
don’t die. They disappear into the smoke and
wait to return.”
Then he pointed at me and said:
Pastor: “And this woman here… she carries
his roar.”
They tried to lower a symbolic cof n—a black
crate wrapped in a leather jacket and two
shisanyama t-shirts. Inside was everything
Zakhe ever touched. His ring. His rst gold
tooth. A bottle of his cologne. His last
bloodied hoodie. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t
cry. Because if I cried, it would be real. And if
it was real… then he was gone. A little boy
ran up—barefoot, skinny, maybe six years
old. No one knew him. He placed a drawing
on the cof n and whispered,
Boy: “For Zakhe. He gave my mother food.”
Then he ran off. People stared at me like I
was the last piece of him they could hold on
to. The last flame from the re. I stepped
closer to the pit. It looked like the mouth of
hell. Waiting. I looked up at the hills. I swear I
saw him—far off, in the mist, just standing.
Black hoodie. Hands in pockets. Watching. Or
maybe it was my mind breaking. I whispered,
Me: “Come back.”
But the wind only blew harder. The vest lifted
for a moment, then dropped like a heart
giving up. Slindile came to me after. Her
voice soft.
Mama: “He loved you, Thola. Even in his
darkness, he loved you more than the streets
ever could.”
I didn’t answer. I was too busy holding onto
the only part of him I had left. His name. They
asked me if I wanted to say something. The
mic was old. It screeched. The wind slapped
it like it had something to say too. But I took
it. I didn’t cry. I didn’t shake. I just stood there
in Zakhe’s favorite black doek and said:
Mama: “You buried a box today. But not a
body.
Because Zakhelikhaya Zulu was never meant
to be caged by wood or weighed down by
soil. He is thunder now. He is wind. He is
every gunshot in the night and every
heartbeat I have left. If you knew him like I
did, you’d know—he’ll never rest. Not while
his name still echoes off these walls.
Not while I still breathe.”
Silence. And then applause. Raw. Rough.
Respectful. They didn’t clap because it was
sweet. They clapped because they were
scared. Because even dead, Zakhe had
power. After that, Gabisile stood beside me,
holding Bawi’s hand. Her tears streamed but
she didn’t fall apart. Not this time. Zakes,
Sgora, all of them came one by one. The pit
was lled. Dirt was tossed. And still… no
body. Because we all knew— Zakhelikhaya
Zulu was somewhere watching. Somewhere
planning. Somewhere loving me the way only
a re-born man could. The crowd started to
leave. Some lingered longer than others—like
they expected a sign, a scream, a bullet in the
sky. But nothing came. Just wind. And the
sharp scent of smoke somewhere in the
distance. I sat by the grave long after the last
person had walked away. No name on the
stone. No photo. Just red earth and silence.
My ngers clutched the charm Zakhe once
wore on his neck. The tiny bullet-shaped
pendant. It was warm in my hand even
though the air was cold. I swear—it pulsed.
Me: “Where are you?”
I whispered into the wind. And for a
second… I felt him. Not behind me. Not in
front. Inside. Like he had buried himself in
my ribs. That was the moment I knew… He
wasn’t gone. He was hiding. Healing. Waiting
for the right moment to rise again. Because a
man like Zakhelikhaya Zulu doesn’t die. He
reloads. I stood up, brushed the soil off my
skirt, and looked toward the hills of
KwaMashu.
Me: “I’ll keep your empire warm for you,
sthandwa sami,”
I whispered.
Me: “And if anyone comes for your throne…
they’ll burn before they sit.”
And just like that, I turned my back on a
grave that held nothing. But carried
everything.

CHAPTER 67
KwaMashu was bleeding. Smoke rose like
ghosts over the skyline. Sirens didn’t even
bother anymore. The cops had stopped trying
to tame the beast Zakhelikhaya once ruled.
His absence had become a crack in the city’s
foundation—and every enemy knew it. But
they moved too fast. Because I was still here.
And I carried his re. It started with the Red
Building. That’s where Zakhe’s legacy lived—
his warehouse, his blood-painted messages,
his stolen secrets. And now, it was
surrounded by Zulu enemies with machetes,
petrol bombs, and fake bravado. They thought
the throne was empty. They thought a woman
wouldn’t bite. They forgot who taught me to
shoot. I pulled up in Zakhe’s black Quantum,
the one he used to spin when we were
younger. Bawi was in the back, barely healed,
still angry. Thando—our newest shooter—
was high off revenge and running scriptures
in her head like a holy war was coming.
Me: “Wait for my call,”
I said, tucking Zakhe’s pistol into my waist.
She didn’t ask why. She knew the streets
weren’t going to forgive us for surviving.
Inside the Red Building, they were laughing.
One of the Mkhize boys had his feet on
Zakhe’s old chair. Disrespect poured from his
mouth like cheap whisky.
Him: “So this is it? Zulu empire’s nal day?
Your king is dead. Might as well burn this
bitch to the ground.”
I stepped into the light. He didn’t even flinch.
Until the muzzle kissed his jaw.
Me: “Nah,”
I said calmly.
Me: “**Zulu empire’s nal day is yours.”
And I red.
Chaos erupted.
Flames followed.
Windows shattered.
Thando kicked the doors open, spraying
rounds like confetti at a gangster’s funeral.
One of the Mkhize men begged. Another ran.
But there’s no mercy in my blood anymore.
Only ashes and names. When it was over, I
stood on the rooftop of the Red Building.
Zulu flag in one hand. Zakhe’s gun in the
other. Smoke curling around my body like a
crown. KwaMashu watched from below—
scared, shaken, and silent. The queen wasn’t
crying anymore. The queen was burning. And
they would all remember… When Zulu
flames rise, they never leave survivors. The
news spread like re in the township wind.
"Red Building torched."
"Mkhize crew wiped out."
"Tholakele Zulu didn’t flinch."
It was poetic—how the place Zakhelikhaya
built with blood was baptized again in it. They
thought his death would end the reign. But
they forgot I wasn’t just his woman. I was his
war. I didn’t want the throne. But it was mine
now. I sat on the roof long after the shooting
stopped. Ashes fluttered like snow around
me. The Zulu flag I raised was already
stained—smoke-kissed, bullet-holed, and
burning at the edges.
Bawi: “Thola,”
Bawi called, climbing up slowly.
Bawi: “It’s done.”
Her eyes searched mine. She was scared. Not
of the enemy.
Of me.
Of what I’d become. I didn’t blame her. I didn’t
recognize myself either. Later that night,
KwaMashu was dead quiet. The kind of quiet
that only comes after hell has passed
through. Zakhelikhaya’s old allies began
returning—scattered dogs snif ng their way
back to a throne they’d abandoned. But I
didn’t welcome them with open arms. I
welcomed them with war plans.
Me: “You want to wear this name?”
I told them.
Me: “Then bleed for it.”
We split the empire into pieces. Drugs went
north. Cars went inland. Protection rackets
stayed under my heel. No one moved without
my call. The Zulu flame would not be
extinguished. Not while my heart still beat
with the rhythm of a .45. That night, I dreamt
of him. Zakhelikhaya. He didn’t speak. He just
stood across from me, blood still drying on
his jaw, that lazy smile on his lips. But in his
eyes… in his eyes was a re I’d never seen
before. Not anger. Not sorrow. Pride.
Like he knew I carried him. Like he saw me
nally—as his equal. I woke up with tears in
my eyes and smoke in my lungs. And for the
rst time since his so-called death……I
whispered,
Me: “Ngiyavuma, sthandwa sami. I’ll nish
what you started.”
KwaMashu didn’t sleep for weeks. Not after
that. People were scared to light candles in
their homes. Because if Zulu lit a flame…It
never went out. The sky over KwaMashu was
orange. Not from sunset. From vengeance.
The Mkhize crew’s warehouse had gone up in
flames. Zakhelikhaya’s name was sprayed in
blood on the walls, just like he used to do.
Only this time… I was the one who did it.
I didn’t flinch.
I didn’t blink.
I set the world on re.
And when the screams rose from inside that
building, I lit a cigarette and whispered,
“This is for Gogo Deli.” Then walked away.
Jomo: “You really torched them, Thola?”
Fireboy’s younger cousin, Jomo, asked me
later. He was shaking. All that adrenaline and
awe trapped in his skinny body.
Me: “I didn’t torch anyone,”
I said, flicking ash from my shirt.
Me: “I burned a message.”
His eyes were wide.
Jomo: “What message?”
Me: “That Zulu blood doesn’t spill without
consequences.”
The city was silent the next day. Not peaceful
silence—frightened silence. Spaza shops
didn’t open. Taxi ranks were empty. Even the
loudest drunkards stayed in their shacks. The
ashes of the warehouse smudged the skyline
like guilt. But I didn’t feel guilty. I felt alive.
More alive than I had since Zakhe took that
bullet. Since Gogo Deli gasped her last
breath in my arms. This wasn’t revenge
anymore. It was revolution. That night I
walked through KwaMashu barefoot, wrapped
in Zakhe’s old leather jacket. My legs burned
from the heat of that re, but I didn’t stop
walking. People peeked through curtains.
Kids whispered my name.
"Tholakele Zulu."
"The girl who kissed a gangster."
"The girl who became one."
By midnight, the Zulu flag was hanging from
the highest tower in the township—black and
red, still stained from the old wars. But this
time… It wasn’t Zakhelikhaya who raised it. It
was me. I kissed my ngers and pressed
them to the steel.
Me: “This is for you, Zakhe. Wherever you
are.”
The stars flickered like they were listening.
The wind carried the scent of smoke and
blood. And my heart carried the weight of a
throne I never wanted… But was born to
burn for. It started with one match.
Just one. Lit between my shaking ngers.
Dropped into the tank of petrol we’d poured
over the floor of the Mkhize hideout. By the
time the re roared to life, my hands weren’t
shaking anymore. The heat hit my face like a
slap from God.
A warning?
Or approval?
I didn’t care.
They took Gogo Deli.
Tried to take Zakhe.
Tried to take me.
I wasn’t the little girl who used to flinch at
raised voices anymore. I wasn’t the soft
granddaughter who begged Gogo to come
home before the streetlights came on. I was
Zulu now.
By blood. By re.
The screams started before the building fully
caught. Mkhize men trying to escape the
wrath. Some begged. Some cursed. I didn’t
move. A few of my boys stood behind me—
Bawi on crutches, bandages still fresh,
holding a Glock like she’d been born with it.
Jomo had tears in his eyes. Mpilo was
smiling. I wasn’t sure which one scared me
more. The re climbed.
So did my rage.
For every bruise.
Every broken promise.
Every time they made Zakhe bleed.
Every time I prayed for peace and got war.
Let them burn.
Bawi: “You’re quiet,”
Bawi said, limping closer, eyes glued to the
re. I stared at the glow, smoke curling into
the sky like a dark offering.
Me: “I said everything I needed to say,”
I murmured.
Me: “With re.”
When it was done—when all that was left was
ash and coughing, blackened bodies—I
nally turned away. The wind carried sparks
behind us, dancing like spirits. People would
talk.
Say I lost my mind.
Say I was grieving.
But they’d be wrong.
I was rising.
Back at Zakhe’s safe house, I stood alone in
his room. His scent still clung to the sheets.
The bloodstain still marked the doorframe
from that night. I pressed my forehead to the
wall and whispered,
Me: “They’ll know your name, baby. Even if I
have to burn the world down for it.”
Later, at the gates of the cemetery, a boy on a
bicycle stopped and looked at me like he’d
seen a ghost.
Boy: “You the one who did it?”
he asked.
Boy: “The girl who lit Mkhize on re?”
I didn’t answer. I just pulled Zakhe’s ring from
my chain, kissed it, and walked on. The Zulu
name wasn’t just feared now. It was legend.
And KwaMashu would never be the same
again.

CHAPTER 68
Bawi’s POV

They think I’m soft because I laugh loud.

Because I still wear pink. Because I call Thola
“bestie” and cry when I miss her
grandmother. But they don’t know what I saw
in that re. They don’t know what I felt when I
held that gun and chose not to drop it. I used
to be the girl who ran.
From ghts.
From boys who talked too slick.
From the smell of blood.
Now I walk with a slight limp. I’ve got
shrapnel near my hip and a scar above my
left eyebrow. But you know what I’ve also
got? A Glock. And aim like I was born angry.
Tholakele changed after Zakhe disappeared.
She stopped asking questions.
She started making decisions.
And when she handed me the gun and said,
Thola: “You don’t have to, Bawi…”
I said,
Me: “Nah. I want to.”
And I meant it. I carry the gun in my tote bag.
Right next to my lip gloss and asthma pump.
The boys on the crew tease me for it.
Jomo: “Cute bag,”
Jomo smirks.
Me: “Thanks,”
I tell him.
Me: “It matches my bullets.”
I go to the corner shop now with eyes at my
back. Because word spread fast. Bawi shot
someone. Bawi ran a man down who tried to
stab Thola. Bawi isn’t scared anymore. Damn
right, I’m not. But at night, when the city
quiets down, and the trauma peeks through
the curtains, I sit on the roof of Zakhe’s
safehouse and whisper to the stars,
Me: “I don’t like this. But I’m good at it.” \
Thola found me there once. She didn’t say a
word. Just sat beside me, wrapped in her
hoodie like a broken saint. I turned to her and
asked,
Me: “You ever think this wasn’t meant for us?”
She didn’t answer. Just looked out at the
streets and said,
Thola: “We carry what they dropped. So
maybe it was meant for us.”

I sleep with the gun under my pillow now.

Not because I’m scared. But because they
should be. Because I’m Bawi.
The best friend.
The pretty one.
The one who used to scream at cockroaches
and cry when boys ghosted me. Now I carry
the ghost of re in my eyes. And the gun that
reminds them:
I survived. And I shoot back now.
I knew it was over the day I didn’t flinch at the
sound of gun re. I blinked once, tucked my
braids behind my ear, and kept walking. No
more screaming. No more ducking behind
crates or crying into Thola’s shoulder. I heard
the shots. But I didn’t feel them. My mother
doesn’t know who I am anymore. She prays
harder. Lights candles. Tells the neighbours
I’m “just helping out my friend.” If she ever
found out I had blood on my hands… She’d
think I was possessed. Maybe I am.
Possessed by grief. By loyalty. By the
promise I made to Gogo Deli while she was
dying in my arms:
“I won’t let them touch Tholakele. Not ever.”
Thola gave me my rst real kiss on the cheek
after I pulled that trigger.
Thola: “You saved my life, Bawi,”
she whispered. But the look in her eyes
wasn’t joy. It was mourning. Because with that
one act, I crossed over. From soft to sharp.
From loud laughter to quiet vengeance. I still
wear pink. I still beat my face with the softest
brushes. But now I clean guns in between
doing my edges. Now I walk like I own the
road. Because I do. The turf respects who
they fear. And they fear me now. I never
wanted to be this girl. But when they came
for us at the garage, and Thola was bleeding
from the lip, I didn’t hesitate. I stepped
forward. Aimed. And whispered,
Me: “Tell your ancestors I said hi.”
Bang. I go to sleep earlier now. Less groove.
More grind. Because Thola’s trying to keep us
safe.
And I’m her shadow now.
Where she walks, I follow.
What she can't do, I will.
We’re not just friends anymore.
We’re soldiers.
In acrylics and jeans, dripping in perfume
and war scars. And when Zakhe comes
back—because deep down, I believe that mf
is alive—I’ll be standing at the gates like,
“You left her with me. She’s still breathing.
But so is your war.”
Pink lips. Loaded clip. And a heart
that doesn’t beat soft anymore. The gun was
heavier than I expected. Not just in my
hand— But in my heart. Every time I held it,
I felt the weight of Gogo Deli’s death,
The screams at the funeral with no body,
The sound of Thola’s heartbeat when she
cried into my chest. This wasn’t about being
brave. It was about survival. I didn’t tell
anyone the rst time I pulled the trigger.
Not even Thola. I just cleaned the blood off
my shirt in the dark, Put the gun in my Dora
the Explorer backpack, And lay next to her
like nothing happened.
Her head on my lap.
Her trust in my hands.
Her heart still beating.
She didn't even know I’d saved her again. I
used to talk a lot. Now I listen more. I watch
more. Who’s moving funny. Who’s asking too
many questions. Who flinches when Zakhe’s
name is mentioned. I clock it all. Because the
streets are shifting. Someone’s pretending to
be him. Someone’s sending messages with
his name signed at the bottom. Spray-
painting his old sayings on walls. But I know
Zakhe. And if that was him? He would’ve
walked in already.
Guns blazing.
Blood dripping.
Calling Thola his queen.
So who’s playing with our heads? I keep the
gun in my thigh holster now. Right above my
knee-high boots. Next to the pepper spray I
don’t use anymore. I practice in secret. At
Zakhe’s old warehouse. Hitting bottles like
they killed my mother. I used to be scared.
Of the dark.
Of dying.
Of losing myself.
But now? I’m more scared of her dying.
Tholakele.
My best friend.
My sister.
My reason.
I don’t care what happens to me. But if
someone touches her again? I’ll be the one
writing names in blood on the wall. They call
me “Glam & Guns” now. Or just “Bawi the
Baddie.” But they don’t know the cost. They
don’t see the nightmares. The way I flinch
when kids laugh too loud. Or the way I can’t
eat pap without remembering Gogo Deli’s
hands. But I keep going. I carry the gun.
I smile for Thola. And I remind myself:
“You didn’t change, Bawi.
You just became who you had to be.”

CHAPTER 69

Love was never meant to survive re. But

somehow… ours did. Or maybe it didn’t.
Maybe we just stood in the ruins, Breathing
in smoke, Kissing with bleeding mouths, And
calling that love. I see him in dreams.
Barefoot, shirtless, scarred. The bullet wound
where his ribs used to kiss my ngers—
Still bleeding in my memory. I hear his voice
in wind.
Low. Raspy.
Calling me sithandwa sami.
Even when I’m wide awake. And sometimes,
when it’s too quiet… I check the door.
Because I swear, he’ll walk in. With ash in his
hair and re in his eyes. They say time heals.
But time doesn’t have to live with what we
lived through. Gogo Deli gone. Bawi
changed. Slindile hiding secrets in her Bible
pages. And me? I don’t even know who I am
without him.
Zakhelikhaya.
Zulu Prince.
The man who once held my face like I was a
poem. The killer who wrote my name in
blood. The boy who called me his future. He
loved me in chaos. Taught me to laugh with a
gun to my head. Taught me that softness
could survive in smoke. And now? I sit in our
old room.
The mattress is gone. The curtains smell like
gunpowder. There’s blood in the cracks of the
floorboards. But I still sit here— Because this
is where he loved me loudest. Not with
words. But with protection. With madness.
With devotion no sane man could hold.
He once told me:
“If I die, love me in ash. Let the re remember
us.”
I thought it was romantic. Now it just haunts
me. But I still put on his hoodie. Still wear his
chain. Still dance to that song he used to spin
in the car wash. Even when my tears stain my
shirt, Even when I’m screaming into the
pillow— I still love him. Even if he’s gone.
Even if all we have left is dust. Because
baby…
We loved in ashes.
And it still burns.

The nights are the hardest. Because in the

dark, I remember everything. The way his
hands felt when they shook after a kill. The
way he’d curl around me like I was safer than
a bulletproof vest. The way his voice softened
when he whispered,
“Ngiyesaba ukuthi kuzophela, Thola.
Ngiyesaba ukulahlekelwa wuthando lwethu.”
(“I’m scared this will end, Thola. I’m scared of
losing our love.”)
But he never lost it. Even in the end—he
protected it. He died with my name in his
mouth. Except… He’s not dead. Not really.
There are too many unanswered questions.
Too many shadows in corners I never used to
notice. Too many signs. His gun is missing
from the safe. The one he said he’d never
leave behind. His chain—the one I buried
him with—was found under our mattress.
And Gwala swore he saw a silhouette
watching the funeral from the hills. They say
grief makes you see things. But what if I’m
not grieving a ghost? What if I’m loving a man
who’s still burning somewhere in the dark?
I’m not crazy. I know him. His love is not the
kind to die silently. If he’s alive… he’ll come
back. He has to. Because this isn’t just a love
story. It’s a war. A re. A reckoning. And I’m
still standing in the center of the blaze. I go to
our old spots. The car wash. The shisanyama.
The graf ti wall where he sprayed:
“Ngizofa ngothando lukaTholakele.”
(“I will die for Tholakele’s love.”)
His name still echoes in the streets. Whispers
from hooded boys who swear they owe their
lives to him. Legends from the spinners who
say Fireboy died spinning Zakhe’s tribute
track. Girls who light candles at midnight
saying, "Zakhe was the last real one."
But me?
I just wait. I wait like a woman who knows re
doesn’t kill everything.Sometimes it forges.
Sometimes it hardens. Sometimes it hides
what it can’t destroy. I wait because my love
didn’t die. It just learned how to survive in
silence. So I light a cigarette. Even though I
hate the smell. Because he used to say it
calmed him after battle. I inhale, watching the
ember burn… And I whisper into the flame:
“Ngisalindile, Zakhelikhaya. I’m still waiting.”
Even if it takes forever. The walls of his room
haven’t changed. His scent still lingers on the
pillow. Dark cologne. Gunpowder. That cheap
lotion he never stopped using. I sit on the
edge of his bed and press my nose to his
hoodie. I don’t cry anymore. Not because I’m
strong. But because I cried everything out at
the funeral with no body. Now, I just ache.
There’s a difference. Outside, KwaMashu is
loud again. The streets don’t mourn forever.
The taxis still hoot. The spinners still rev. The
girls still laugh like no one was gunned down
in front of them. But in here, his absence
screams. I clutch my stomach like I’m holding
myself together.
Me: “You left me with a war and a child,”
I whisper.
Me: “You left me with memories and
enemies.”
I walk to the drawer where he used to hide
his notebooks. Worn black books full of
lyrics, maps, lists, numbers. Blood and
poetry. I nd one tucked under his mattress. I
haven’t had the strength to read it—until now.
On the rst page, he wrote in his wild, messy
handwriting:
“Uma nginyamalala, ngitshele ukuthi
ngikuthandile ngempela.”
(“If I disappear, tell her I loved her for real.”)
My chest caves in. He knew.
He knew something was coming. I hear
Bawi’s voice from outside, screaming at
someone on the phone. She’s been losing it
lately—talking in circles, sleeping with her
gun under her pillow. She blames herself. For
what happened to Fireboy. For the ambush.
For surviving when others didn’t. But we all
survived in pieces. Later that night, I sit by
the re pit behind Gogo Deli’s house. It’s
quiet here. Too quiet. I stare into the flames
until my eyes sting. The embers dance, wild
and red. And for a second, I swear I see his
silhouette standing across the re. Watching
me. Broad shoulders. Gold tooth glinting.
Head tilted the way he used to when I said
something he didn’t understand but loved
anyway. Then he vanishes. I shake my head, a
sob trapped in my throat.
Me: “We loved in ashes,”
I murmur.
Me: “Even if you’re gone, I’ll carry the burn.”
Because what we had wasn’t gentle. It was
war. It was streetlight kisses and blood on our
hands. It was death threats and belly laughs
in the same breath. And still, It was love.

CHAPTER 70
Zakhe’s POV

I heard her before I saw her. A scream sliced

through the night, raw and ragged—full of
pain, fear, and something desperate. It wasn’t
just any scream. It was her scream. Tholakele.
I was in the shadows, watching from the alley
near the old BP Garage. The street was
empty—except for the men chasing her,
shouting curses, guns drawn. She ran with a
re I hadn’t seen since the day I held her
trembling hand and promised to protect her.
Now, she was ghting for her life. The world
slowed. Every heartbeat echoed in my ears. I
felt the gun in my hand grow heavier. I
wanted to step out. To shout her name. To tell
those bastards she was mine. But I stayed
hidden. She fell. Right there, on the cracked
pavement, the concrete scraping her knees
raw. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
Her eyes wild—searching the darkness for a
savior. And then… She screamed my name.
Thola: “Zakhelikhaya!”
It tore through me like a bullet. I didn’t
hesitate. I ran. Faster than I had in years.
Closer to death than I’d ever been. I reached
her just as the rst bullet cracked the air. I
threw myself on her, felt the impact against
my back. Pain exploded in my side, sharp
and unforgiving. But I held her. She looked
up at me, tears streaking down her dusty
cheeks,
Thola: “Don’t let go,”
she whispered. I couldn’t. That scream—her
scream—saved me. It reminded me what I
was ghting for.
For her.
For us.
Even if the world was burning, Even if the
streets wanted to swallow me whole, I would
stand. Because she called my name. The
night swallowed us whole, but in that
moment, Nothing else mattered. My blood
warmed the tar beneath me, spreading like
the ink I used to write her name across
buildings. But her ngers were on my face,
trembling, desperate, alive.
Thola: "Zakhe... stay with me."
Her voice cracked, a whisper choked by
panic.
Thola: "You said you'd never leave me. Not
like this. Not like this..."
I tried to speak, but my mouth was thick with
pain. The bullet had lodged low—gut shot. It
burned. But her touch was the balm.
Me: "I'm here,"
I croaked, swallowing blood and fear.
Me: "I'm right here, sthandwa..."
The men were gone now—either fled or
dead. I hadn’t even realized I pulled the
trigger. But my Glock was empty. And my
lungs were screaming. Tholakele’s body was
over mine like a shield. She was crying.
Loud. Beautiful. Broken. Then she did
something I didn’t expect. She screamed
again.
Thola: "My name is Tholakele Zulu! I belong
to this man! And if he dies, I burn this whole
f**king province to the ground!"
Her voice echoed through the empty street,
rising like smoke over re. It hit me harder
than the bullet. Harder than any gang war
ever had. She wasn't afraid anymore.
Not of the streets.
Not of the blood.
Not even of death.
Because she loved me. And love like that? It
could raise the dead. I gripped her wrist.
Me: "Babe..."
She froze.
Me: "I'm not dying tonight."
I coughed hard, wincing.
Me: "But I need you to drive me. Not cry on
me."
She laughed through her sobs. A sharp,
manic laugh.
Thola: "Drive you? Zakhe, you just took a
bullet—"
Me: "Yeah, and I’ve taken worse for people
who wouldn’t even spit on me. You? You’re
my whole f**king soul."
She kissed my forehead.
Thola: "I’ll get you to Doc Duma. Just hold
on."
Her hands were steady now. Her eyes…
different. Like a queen in war. Like a woman
reborn from the ashes. She screamed my
name—and the streets listened. Now it was
my turn to rise. The world was a blur of
sirens, tyre screeches, and white light. I faded
in and out of consciousness during the ride.
But the constant in the chaos was her hand.
Small. Warm. Shaking—but never letting go.
Tholakele sat beside me in the back of Doc
Duma’s bakkie, whispering in my ear the
whole way:
Thola: "You’re okay."
Thola: "You’re strong."
Thola: "Stay with me, mshini wami."
Thola: "You promised me forever."
And damn it… I was trying. We reached the
hidden clinic—a warehouse in kwaMashu
turned surgery. Doc Duma was already
scrubbing in. No questions. Just gloves and
sharp instructions.
Duma: "Tholakele, move—"
Thola: "No. I’m staying."
They tried to push her back, but she stood
her ground.
Thola: "You save him. I’ll pray. And if he dies,
I’ll f**king haunt you."
They worked on me while I drifted between
pain and dreams. At one point, I opened my
eyes and saw her. Head bowed. Hands
clasped. Mumbling Zulu prayers with her
forehead touching my boot. And in that
moment… I didn’t feel like a gangster. Or a
killer. Or a dying man. I felt like hers. Later,
when the bullet was out and the bleeding
stopped, I felt a warm cloth dabbing my brow.
Thola: "Zakhe..."
Her voice again. Soft. Gentle. Real. I turned
my head slowly. She looked so tired. So raw.
Eyes swollen. Braids loose. But she was still
the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
Thola: "You scared the shit out of me,"
she whispered.
I smiled weakly.
Me: "You screamed my name… like a
queen."
She smiled, tears slipping down her cheeks.
Thola: "You’re not allowed to die. I still want a
wedding. A home. A little boy who calls you
Baba and learns to spin by the time he’s
eight."
I swallowed thickly.
Me: "You’ll get all of that, sthandwa.
Everything. Even my last breath."
She leaned down and kissed me softly. Not
the passionate kind. Not the desperate kind.
The forever kind. The monitors beeped.
Doc Duma gave a quiet nod behind her.
Stable. For now. Tholakele laid her head
gently on my chest and whispered,
Thola: "Sleep, Zakhelikhaya Zulu.
Tomorrow, we rise."

CHAPTER 71
Mfundo’s POV

I lit my cigar with a shaking hand. Not fear.

Not guilt. Just adrenaline. From the shadows,
I’d watched Zakhelikhaya Zulu build a
kingdom of smoke and loyalty. Watched him
love a girl so loudly the streets echoed her
name. Watched him take bullets like he was
immortal. But even gods bleed.
And I? I’d just become the reason his name
might not see tomorrow.
Menzi: “He’s still alive,”
Menzi whispered from the door.
Menzi: “He made it to the warehouse…
barely.”
I exhaled slow.
Me: “So I get to bury him myself.”
Menzi looked unsure.
Menzi: “The crew—some of them are talking.
You sure you wanna—”
Me: “I don’t pay you to talk,”
I cut him off.
Me: “I pay you to listen.”
They all thought Zakhe was chaos. He wasn’t.
He was structure wrapped in war paint. I was
the chaos. The rot under his throne.
The silent flame beneath every riot, every
body drop, every gun deal that “went wrong.”
He called it family. I called it leverage. And
now? Now that he’d chosen love over
legacy… Now that he let Tholakele hold the
gun that once belonged to me? He made it
personal. I tapped the ash off the edge of the
map spread across my desk. Spots marked in
red. Dead men’s corners. Territories
Zakhelikhaya ruled like a myth. They were
mine now.

Voice note sent at 02:13AM

To: Bawi
“You should’ve stayed in the background,
little girl. But since you wanna carry guns
now? Welcome to my war.”
I poured whisky into a glass Zakhe gave me
ve years ago.
Me: “Die slow, my brother,”
I whispered. Then I raised it to my lips.
Me: “And let the kingdom crown the right
monster.”

Meanwhile…
In a dusty underground room, Tholakele
stitches up Zakhe’s wound with shaking
hands and bloody ngers. Bawi stands guard,
gun cocked. The streets are about to go silent
before the loudest storm.
The room smelled like power. Leather seats.
Gold ornaments. A single bullet on the coffee
table — the one meant for Zakhe’s head. I
leaned back in my chair, watching the live
feed on my monitor. Tholakele patching him
up. Bawi by the door, her hand never leaving
that pistol. Even wounded, Zakhe still had
people who'd die for him. People who loved
him. It disgusted me.
Him: “Should we smoke them out now?”
one of my lieutenants asked. I turned to him
slowly.
Me: “No,”
I said.
Me: “Let them sweat. Let Thola watch him
bleed and wonder if love was worth war. Let
her remember that I’m the one who helped
raise her father’s empire—before I tore it
down.”
He blinked.
Him: “You… you’re the one who—”
I nodded once. The truth felt like a blade
nally unsheathed.

Flashback – 12 years ago

Zakhelikhaya had just taken his rst life.
We stood over the body together, his hands
trembling, mine steady.
Me: “You never forget the rst one,”
I’d told him.
Me: “But you’ll learn to stop dreaming about
them.”
He nodded like I was God. But gods? Gods
don’t share thrones.

Back to now.
I poured myself another drink, staring at the
folder in front of me. Slindile Vilakazi.
Tholakele’s mother. Weak spot. Quiet mouth.
Deep past.
Me: “She was mine long before she was
anyone’s mother,”
I muttered.
Me: “And now… she’ll help me end this.”
A burner phone buzzed beside me. Message
from an unknown number:
“Z still breathes. He’s hiding in Nanda with the
girl. What are your orders?”
I typed slowly.
“Let her believe she’s saving him.
Then kill the both of them in front of the
baby.”

Elsewhere in KZN...
Zakhelikhaya groaned in pain.
Zakhe: “Thola… if I don’t make it—”
Thola: “Shut up,”
she whispered, tears falling.
Thola: “You will make it.”
Her hands were covered in blood. His blood.
And Bawi, silent at the door, stared out into
the dark like she could smell war coming.
Because it was. And Mfundo had just pulled
the rst string.
Tholakele’s POV
I kept hearing whispers. Inside my head.
Outside my chest. They sounded like
Mfundo. Every time I blinked, I could see him
— Behind my father’s old desk. Wearing my
father’s old rings. Running this world with lies
dressed in silk. I should’ve known. Mfundo
never came to mourn at my father’s funeral.
He never asked how we were doing. He was
too quiet. And the quiet ones are the ones
who pull the strings and watch the flames
from afar.

Bawi's POV
I could feel it in my ngers. Something was
off. We weren’t just hiding. We were hunted.
Zakhe’s breathing was better. But not strong.
He had his head in Thola’s lap, and her tears
were falling straight into his beard. I held the
gun tighter. I hadn’t told them yet what I saw
that night. When I was almost killed. Who was
really behind it. The shape in the dark. The
tattoo that matched the one Mfundo had on
his right hand.

Mfundo’s POV
I lit the cigar slowly. One puff. Then another.
The smoke curled like everything I built. The
empire that Zakhelikhaya ran like a lion? I
built the bones of that lion. I gave him
soldiers. Streets. Suppliers. Power. But he
forgot one thing: I don’t share crowns.I turned
to the woman in the corner of my of ce.
Slindile Vilakazi. Yes, Thola’s mother. Her
head was lowered. Shoulders trembling.
Sli: “You said you’d never touch her,”
she whispered. I stood, walked over, and
tilted her chin up.
Me: “I lied,”
I said. She slapped me. Hard. I didn’t stop
her. But I leaned closer and whispered,
Me: “You owe me, Slindile. Remember who
paid your daughter’s school fees. Who
protected you when your husband wanted
you dead.”
Her voice was a whisper.
Sli: “I thought you loved me.”
Me: “I did. That’s why I kept her alive this
long.”
Tholakele’s POV
My phone buzzed. Private Number. I
answered. Slowly. The voice sent ice through
my bones.
Mfundo: “Hi, Ntombazane... did you miss
me?”
Mfundo. I could hear the grin on his voice.
And then I heard it— My mother’s scream in
the background.
Me: “Mama?!”
Mfundo: “You’ve made this personal,”
he said.
Mfundo: “So now, I’m going to make it
unforgettable.”
Then...
Click.
CHAPTER 72

The letter came wrapped in a thin black

envelope, no return address, no signature —
just a single word scrawled across the front
in jagged red ink: Betrayal. My hands
trembled as I peeled it open. Inside was a
blood-stained page, with a message written
in a hand I recognized all too well.
“You’re weaker than your mother ever was.
You think you hold the crown, but you don’t
even hold your own blood. The family turns
when the throne shakes.”
And then the signature:
Qiniselani.
My breath caught. Qiniselani — my half-
sister. My blood.The one I trusted. The one I
thought had my back. I read it again, this time
noticing the subtle code hidden in the lines.
She was giving away secrets. Territory. Plans.
Names. She was selling us out.
To Mfundo.
To the enemy.
Bawi slammed the door open.
Bawi: “Thola, you gotta see this.”
She tossed her phone on the table, a video
playing. Qiniselani shaking hands with
Mfundo in the back of a dusty taxi rank.
Smiling too close. Whispering too much. I
sank to my knees. The woman who had once
called me sister… had stabbed me with a
pen instead of a knife. But this betrayal wasn’t
just blood. It was the rst crack in the empire
Zakhe built. And I knew: the war was far from
over. I held the letter tighter, my knuckles
white, heart pounding like war drums. How
deep did the betrayal go? How long had
Qiniselani been whispering in Mfundo’s ear? I
wanted to scream. But all that came out was
silence. Because betrayal is a slow poison. It
seeps into your bones. Turns your own blood
into an enemy. I thought back to every
moment with Qiniselani. The laughter. The
secrets. The trust. Was it all a lie? Bawi stood
beside me, eyes erce.
Bawi: “This changes everything.”
Her voice low, dangerous.
Bawi: “We can’t ght a war with daggers in
our backs.”
I nodded.
Me: “We ght smarter. We make her regret
every breath she takes.”
That night, I didn’t sleep. Instead, I wrote my
own letter. A letter not for the streets. Not for
the gangs. But for the sister who broke me. I
didn’t send it. I folded it, sealed it with a
promise:
“You will pay for this, Qiniselani. And I will be
the one to make sure of it.”
The game was no longer just survival. It was
personal. Blood was thicker than water, yes
— but it was also the battle eld. And I was
ready to claim my crown. The letter burned in
my hands—not because of the paper or ink,
but because of the truth it held. Qiniselani
had been a ghost in our family’s war, a
shadow moving through the cracks,
whispering to the enemy. I remembered the
quiet phone calls, the strange absences. The
way her eyes always flickered away when I
asked too many questions. It was all a lie. I
crumpled the letter, then smoothed it out
again. There was no room for doubt. The
enemy was inside my walls. I looked at Bawi,
her jaw clenched.
Me: “We’ve been playing checkers while she’s
been playing chess.”
She nodded, loading her gun with deliberate
care.
Me: “We move tonight.”
Later, in the silence of the night, I stood
before my mother’s altar, lighting a candle. I
prayed not for forgiveness, but for strength.
For the power to face the woman I once
called sister. Because now, this was war on
every level. The battle eld wasn’t just the
streets anymore—it was our bloodline. The
city slept unaware. But I was wide awake.
Ready to hunt the betrayer.

CHAPTER 73

The night was cold, but my hands burned

with a re I could barely contain. Qiniselani
was coming home. She didn’t know what
waited for her. The streets whispered my
name as I paced, gun tucked at my side,
heart pounding in my throat. She was my
blood. My sister. And now, my target. When
she stepped into the courtyard, eyes wide
and wary, I saw no remorse. Only the cold
calculation of a woman who believed she was
untouchable. I didn’t say a word. The gun in
my hand did. One shot. Two shots. She fell
like a kingpin betrayed. Her last breath a
whisper of regret—and maybe a prayer. I
watched the life leave her eyes. Not because I
wanted to kill my sister. But because she
chose Mfundo over family. Because betrayal
doesn’t deserve mercy. As her body hit the
ground, I felt something break inside me.
A chapter closed. A war deepened. I turned
away and whispered,
Me: “This is for Zakhe. For Mama Deli. For all
of us.”
The streets would remember. The air hung
heavy with dust and betrayal. Qiniselani’s
blood pooled like spilled ink—dark,
permanent, staining the ground beneath us. I
didn’t watch her die. I closed my eyes,
breathed deep, and swallowed the bitter truth.
She was family once. Now, just another
casualty in this war Mfundo started. I wiped
the gun clean with the hem of my shirt.
The cold metal felt like ice against my
burning skin. Bawi’s eyes met mine. No
words passed between us—only the
unspoken vow: This war is far from over. As
the rst rays of dawn broke over KwaMashu, I
stood alone with the weight of a crown I
never wanted. Blood on my hands. Fire in my
veins. And a promise that whoever came next
would know the meaning of Tholakele Zulu.
The echoes of gun re still hung heavy in the
night air. Qiniselani lay still, eyes wide open
as if in shock — or maybe disbelief. I looked
down at the sister I once trusted, the woman
who shattered my world with a single letter.
Her blood stained the earth beneath us. Not
just blood — betrayal made flesh, seeping
into every crack of the kingdom we tried to
build. I didn’t shed a tear. Not because I’m
cold. But because sometimes love means
letting go. Sometimes love means burning
the bridges you thought would hold you.
Bawi stood beside me, silent but steady.
Her gun was empty, but her loyalty was
endless. I took a deep breath, tasting the
bitter smoke of war.
Me: “This is for Zakhe,”
I whispered.
Me: “For Mama Deli.”
Me: “For every soul Mfundo thought he could
break.”
The crown felt heavier than ever. But I was
ready to wear it. The streets would whisper
this night forever. And I’d make sure they
remembered.

CHAPTER 74
Zakhe’s POV

I felt the re before I saw it. Not the flames

licking the edges of the world, but the re
inside Tholakele. That erce, unyielding blaze
that no bullet, no betrayal, no bloodshed
could ever snuff out. She was standing in the
ruins of everything we’d lost—stronger,
harder, and more dangerous than ever. The
queen forged from ashes. I limped beside
her, every breath a battle. The bullet in my
side still screamed, but the pain was nothing
compared to the ache of watching her carry
this war alone.
Me: “You were always my flame,”
I said, voice rough but sure.
Me: “Even when the world tried to drown us
in smoke and re, you burned bright.”
She didn’t smile. Not yet. But her eyes
softened—just a little.
Thola: “We have enemies in every shadow,”
she whispered.
Thola: “But we’re still standing.”
Her hand found mine, ngers curling tight. A
silent promise between two warriors. The
streets were still trembling. But together, we’d
set them on re.

Thola’s POV
He reached for me with that rough, tired
hand. His eyes, dark and erce, held the
weight of everything we’d been through—
loss, pain, and a love forged in re.
Zakhe: “You were always my flame,”
Zakhe whispered, voice hoarse but steady. I
swallowed hard, the lump in my throat
burning hotter than any bullet wound.
Me: “I had to be,”
I said.
Me: “For you. For Zithulele. For us.”
The city outside moaned in chaos, but here—
between the cracks of broken dreams and
shattered promises—we found a moment of
fragile peace. He smiled, just a ghost of one,
and squeezed my hand.
Zakhe: “We’ll burn the whole world down
before they take us apart.”
I nodded, feeling the re in my chest ignite
again. Our kingdom might be surrounded by
enemies, but as long as we had each other,
no one could extinguish our flame.

Zakhe’s POV
The war raged outside. But inside this broken
room, we were unbreakable. The re inside
her was relentless. Every scar, every tear,
every sacri ce carved her into the woman I’d
fallen in love with—the queen who refused to
be broken. I reached for her hand, trembling
from the wound but steady in my purpose.
Me: “You were always my flame, Tholakele.
Even when I couldn’t see the way, you burned
bright.”
Her eyes, erce and wild, met mine.
Thola: “I’ll keep burning, Zakhe. For us. For
our son. For the legacy we build in the
ashes.”
Outside, the city groaned under the weight of
war. But inside, in the quiet between our
breaths, we were unstoppable. I pulled her
close, feeling the heat of her resolve sear
through the cold.
Me: “We’ll set this whole place ablaze if we
have to.”
Her laugh was soft but erce.
Thola: “Then let’s make sure they remember
our names.”
Together, we were re and smoke—
dangerous and unforgettable.

CHAPTER 75
The night air was thick with tension, but
inside our small room, a new kind of re was
burning. One that didn’t roar with violence —
but whispered with hope. My body trembled
with pain and promise. Zithulele was coming.
Zakhe held my hand like a lifeline, eyes never
leaving mine.
Zakhe: “I’m here,”
he murmured, voice rough but steady.
Zakhe: “We’re almost there.”
The world outside was chaos — sirens,
shouting, distant gun re — but inside, time
slowed. Every contraction was a battle. Every
breath a prayer. And then — a cry. A sharp,
strong wail that cut through the silence.
Zithulele.
Our son.
Our legacy.
I collapsed into Zakhe’s arms, tears mixing
with sweat and blood.
Me: “We made it,”
I whispered.
Me: “We survived.”
He kissed my forehead, eyes shining with
something erce and new.
Zakhe: “Our son is the flame that will never
die.”
Outside, the streets may still be burning.
But inside, a new light was born.

Zakhe’s POV
I held Tholakele’s hand tighter than ever,
feeling every shudder of pain she fought
through. This was more than survival — it
was a new beginning. The cries echoed in the
dim room, sharp and erce, a de ant scream
against the world that wanted to tear us apart.
Our son.
Zithulele.
I looked down at the tiny face, pink and
wrinkled, already full of life and ght. This
baby was more than blood — he was our
legacy, the flame that would carry us forward.
Thola’s exhausted smile broke through the
pain and sweat.
Thola: “We made it,”
she whispered, voice trembling with relief and
love. Outside, the streets might still be
burning, but here — in this moment — the
re was a promise. A promise that no matter
what came next, we would never be
extinguished. I kissed her forehead, knowing
the war was far from over, but feeling a erce
hope I hadn’t felt in years.
Thola’s POV
The room was heavy with the scent of sweat
and something sweeter—life. Zithulele’s rst
cry pierced the silence, raw and powerful. I
had never heard anything more beautiful.
Zakhe’s hands were steady as he cut the cord,
his eyes never leaving me.
Zakhe: “You did it,”
he whispered, voice thick with emotion. I
looked at our son, his tiny ngers grasping at
the air.
Me: “We did it,”
I corrected softly. The world outside was
chaos, but inside this room, there was peace.
A fragile peace, but peace nonetheless.
I held Zithulele close, feeling the warmth of
his tiny body against mine.
Me: “You’re our future,”
I murmured.
Me: “Our hope.”
Zakhe kissed my forehead, his hand resting
gently on our son’s back.
Zakhe: “We’ll protect him. Always.”
As the night stretched on, I watched my two
boys sleep, their breaths steady and calm.
The war outside could wait. For now, we had
each other.

CHAPTER 76
The morning after Zithulele’s birth wasn’t soft.
It came with helicopters circling like vultures,
tires screeching in the distance, and news
from the streets that turned my milk bitter.
Zakhelikhaya stood by the window, shirtless,
with Zithulele nestled in his arms. His gun
rested on the windowsill next to a baby bottle.
His back muscles tensed as he listened to the
whispers of war echoing through the
township.
Bhelekazi: “They’re surrounding us,”
Bhelekazi announced, bursting into the room
with a loaded rifle slung over her shoulder.
Her face was streaked with ash.
Bhelekazi: “Mfundo’s crew. The ones from
Durban. Even the ghosts you made back in
eMlazi… they’re back for revenge.”
Zakhe turned slowly, eyes hollow.
Zakhe: “Let them come.”
Outside the house, the air pulsed with
tension. Black VW Polos, BMWs with tinted
windows, and modi ed Golfs blocked every
exit. Men in ski masks whispered codes into
radios. I clutched my baby tighter.
Me: “Zakhe, we need to leave. Please.”
He shook his head.
Zakhe: “If I run now, I’ll be running forever.”
Me: “But you have a son now,”
I said, voice trembling.
Me: “You have us.”
He stepped forward, kissed my forehead,
then kissed Zithulele’s tiny hand.
Zakhe: “That’s exactly why I won’t run.”
Gunshots cracked like thunder in the
distance. We hit the ground as a bullet
shattered the front window. Bhelekazi
returned re, yelling something about
flanking them from the back. Zakhe was calm,
too calm, as if death was just an old friend
coming for tea.
Bhelekazi: “We’re outnumbered,”
she shouted.
Zakhe: “I know,”
Zakhe replied, strapping on his vest.
Zakhe: “But they’re not ready for how far I’m
willing to go.”
The house shook. It wasn't just gun re
now—it was war drums in the distance. Our
home, the same one where Zakhelikhaya
whispered love into my neck, where I
screamed Zithulele into this world, was now a
fortress surrounded by shadows.
Bhelekazi: “Ngicela uThola aphume lapha,”
Bhelekazi snapped.
Bhelekazi: “Right now. We’re locking her in
the panic room.”
Me: “I’m not leaving Zakhe,”
I growled. My voice surprised even me. She
stared at me, then nodded with the kind of
respect that came from bloodshed.
Bhelekazi: “Then take this,”
she said, handing me a pistol. Cold. Heavy.
A different kind of motherhood. I could hear
them outside—voices I recognized. Boys who
once laughed with Zakhe. Men he fed. They
were calling his name like a prayer and a
curse.
“Zakhelikhaya!”
“Come out, mfana!”
“You can't hide behind your queen forever!”
Zakhe held Zithulele, his back pressed
against the wall. He kissed the baby’s
forehead like it might be the last time.
Zakhe: “I gave them jobs,”
he murmured.
Zakhe: “Gave them food. Now they want my
blood.”
Me: “They want your power,”
I whispered.
Me: “Because they know you were born from
re.”
He gave me that smile—the one that came
before a storm.
Zakhe: “Then I’ll burn with it.”

There were booms. Grenades or petrol

bombs—we couldn’t tell. One of our men
screamed outside. The Avanza crew had
started taking hits. Zakhe handed me the
baby.
Zakhe: “If I fall, you run. Take Zithulele to
Gogo. Tell her I kept my promise.”
Me: “No,”
I whispered, tears already falling.
Me: “You’re not going anywhere without us.”
He cupped my cheek, thumb wiping my tear.
Zakhe: “I killed for you, Tholakele. I’ll die for
you too.”
The doors rattled. They were trying to break
in. Bhelekazi reappeared, bleeding from the
shoulder.
Bhelekazi: “They’re in the yard. We need to
move. Now.”
Zakhe cocked his rifle.
Zakhe: “Let’s end this.”
Outside, the sun had no warmth. Smoke
coated the sky. Zakhelikhaya stepped out rst,
head held high, gun in one hand, heart in the
other. And as the enemies swarmed like
vultures, I knew one thing with certainty: If
Zakhelikhaya Zulu was going down, he was
taking hell with him.

Zakhe’s POV

The house was breathing fear. Every window

held a shadow. Every corner whispered
betrayal. And somewhere behind it all, my
son was crying. Not loud—just a soft,
confused whimper that felt louder than any
gunshot I’d ever heard.
Bhelekazi: “They’re here,”
Bhelekazi murmured, holding her bleeding
shoulder.
Bhelekazi: “The real ones. The ones you kept
sparing.”
I looked at her.
Me: “Mfundo?”
She nodded once.
Mfundo. My brother by blade, but never by
heart. The one I let live too many times. The
one who knew every layout of this house,
every escape route, every place I kept my
demons and my blessings. He was never
after the crown. He wanted the blood beneath
it. I kissed Zithulele one last time.
Me: “When you grow up,”
I whispered to his tiny ear,
Me: “don’t look for me in stories. Look for
me in the way your mother stands up when
the world wants her on her knees.”
Tholakele was already dressed for war. All-
black. Hair braided and tied back. My hoodie
on. My gun in her hand. That girl who used
to cry over burnt pap and broken hearts was
now a woman who would bleed kingdoms
dry to protect what was hers.
Me: “You shouldn’t be here,”
I said softly. She smirked.
Thola: “Neither should you. Yet here we are.
Married in smoke.”
There was yelling outside.
“Zakhelikhaya!”
“Come out, mfana!”
“You die tonight!”
I stepped outside, the front door creaking like
a cof n lid. Behind me, Bawi and the rest of
the crew were loading rounds. Tholakele
stayed at the top of the stairs, Zithulele
against her chest. Mfundo stood in the yard,
cocky as ever.
Mfundo: “You always loved the drama,”
he laughed.
Mfundo: “Thought maybe you’d try running.”
Me: “I built this house with my sins,”
I said.
Me: “I’ll bury you in its ashes if I have to.”
And then…
Gun re.
No warning.
No speech.
Just re.
Bawi went down. Not dead—shot in the leg.
Bhelekazi red back. One of Mfundo’s boys
screamed and dropped. The yard became a
battle eld. And I became the devil they always
feared I’d turn into. I don’t know how long we
fought. I just know that every bullet had a
name. Every scream came with a memory.
Every second that passed was one step
closer to death—or glory. And when my clip
emptied, and the smoke cleared just long
enough to breathe— I saw Mfundo charging.
Knife in hand.
Eyes red.
Like a brother.
Like a beast.
CHAPTER 77

The silence after the gunshots was worse

than the chaos. I couldn’t hear Zakhelikhaya. I
couldn’t see him. All I could see was Bawi
crawling toward the stairs, clutching his leg,
blood pouring into the soil. All I could hear
was Zithulele’s soft breath against my chest,
steady, innocent, unaware that the world he
was born into was covered in re and
betrayal.
Me: “Where’s Zakhe?”
I asked him like he could speak. Where’s your
father, sthandwa sam? I moved like a ghost
through the wreckage. The smell of
gunpowder made me dizzy. My ears rang.
There were bodies on the ground—some of
them ours, some of them Mfundo’s. I didn’t
care. I wanted one man. Just one. And when I
saw him— He was on his knees. His white
vest soaked in red. His arms trembling.
Mfundo’s knife lodged into his side.
Me: “Zakhe…”
He looked at me. And I saw everything in that
look. The pain. The ght. The love. The
goodbye. I dropped next to him, holding his
face.
Me: “You’re okay. You're okay. We’re okay,
Zakhe. Stay with me, baby.”
He coughed. Blood painted his lips.
Zakhe: “You wore my hoodie.”
Me: “Don’t say stupid things,”
I snapped, wiping his mouth.
Me: “You’re not dying, do you hear me?”
He smiled like it was the last thing he’d do.
Zakhe: “If I die… I die loved. Found. Home.”
Me: “No. Don’t—don’t talk like that.”
I kissed him. God, I kissed him like maybe I
could breathe life back into his lungs. Like
maybe I could kiss death away. Like maybe
love was enough. But it wasn’t. His body
slumped against me.
Me: “No!” I screamed.
Me: “Zakhelikhaya, you open your eyes! You
open your eyes, dammit!”
Zithulele started crying. I didn’t even realize I
was crying too—until I felt the tears crash
down onto Zakhe’s face.
Me: “I can’t breathe without you,”
I whispered.
Me: “You hear me? I can’t—breathe—
without—you.”
And then, softly. Barely. His lips moved.
Zakhe: “I’m… still here…”
I broke. I sobbed and held him tighter, calling
for Bhelekazi, for Bawi, for God himself if he
was listening. Zakhelikhaya Zulu wasn’t gone
yet. But death was already in the room,
waiting. They tried to pull me off him. I
screamed. I kicked. I fought them like they
were the enemy—because anyone trying to
take me from Zakhelikhaya Zulu was the
enemy.
Bawi: “Thola, he needs space—”
Bawi shouted, limping toward us.
Me: “He needs me!”
I shrieked back.
Me: “He needs his wife!”
Wife. The word split me open. We had never
even made it to that part of life. We had
barely lived. Barely loved. And now time was
slipping between my ngers like smoke and
blood and prayers I never nished.
Bhelekazi: “Ambulance is on the way,”
Bhelekazi said breathlessly, pressing gauze to
Zakhe’s side. But he was fading. I saw it in the
way his eyes fluttered. In how his lips were
blue around the corners. In how his hand,
once so strong, was barely wrapped around
my wrist now.
Zakhe: “I should’ve married you…”
he whispered hoarsely. I leaned in.
Me: “Don’t say goodbye.”
Zakhe: “Thola…”
Me: “No! Don’t say goodbye! You are not
leaving me. Not after everything. Not after
you painted my name in blood. Not after you
gave me a son. You don’t get to leave me!”
Tears choked me. I could barely see. I kissed
him again. Softer. Slower. Like a farewell—but
I wouldn’t let it be one.
Me: “Zithulele needs you. I need you.”
He gave me a trembling smile.
Zakhe: “He’ll grow up strong. Like you.”
Me: “And soft,”
I whispered, brushing his cheek.
Me: “Like you.”
Zakhelikhaya Zulu’s eyes didn’t close. But the
light in them dimmed. Like a candle burning
too fast. I held his face. And sobbed. The
streetlights flickered above us. The sky was
turning grey with morning. And inside me—
A scream lived. A scream I could never let
out. Because if I screamed, I’d accept it. And
if I accepted it, he was really gone. They pried
him from my arms. Wrapped his body in
bloodied linen. I stood there, shaking, with
his scent still all over my hands and his voice
echoing in my ears. I turned to Zithulele in
Bawi’s arms. She was quiet now. Eyes open.
As if… somehow… She knew.

CHAPTER 78
I hadn’t opened the door in days. Not since I
buried Zakhe in my clothes. Not since they
peeled his blood from my skin. Not since the
walls started whispering his name every night
like a prayer I couldn’t nish. Then came the
knock.
Three times.
Soft.
Steady.
Final.
I wiped my face, the skin raw from tears. My
hair was tied with his durag. His scent barely
lingered now. And Zithulele… he hadn’t cried
in hours. That silence scared me more than
anything. I stepped toward the door barefoot.
Another knock. Louder this time. My ngers
trembled against the lock. I opened it …and
Mfundo stood there—his shirt soaked in
blood. His chest heaving. His mouth split. A
bullet wound near his collarbone and a gun
in his hand. He looked me dead in the eyes.
Mfundo: “Your man started a war,”
he rasped. He stumbled forward. Bled. On my
doorstep. Collapsed at my feet. I screamed.
But not out of shock.
Out of rage.
Out of pain.
Out of the truth I knew was coming. Because
Zakhelikhaya Zulu may have died in my arms,
but the game he played……was still killing
people. Mfundo coughed blood. I stared at
him—this man who was once his right hand,
his made up brother. His childhood friend.
His secret enemy.
Mfundo: “I didn’t mean for it to go this far,”
he whispered. I crouched beside him, my
voice sharp like glass.
Me: “What did you mean to do, Mfundo? Get
him locked up? Kill him slowly?”
He blinked slowly.
Mfundo: “He chose you over everything. Over
me. Over the family. Over the throne.”
I slapped him. Hard.
Me: “You betrayed him.”
His eyes welled.
Mfundo: “I thought I was saving him.”
Me: “You destroyed him.”
The blood from his wound began seeping
into my welcome mat. Into my home. Into my
sanctuary. It stained everything red. And with
it, I felt something inside me shatter. Zithulele
cried out from the back room. My son. My
son with no father. My son born into war. I
turned back to Mfundo.
Me: “You better not die here,”
I growled.
Me: “Because I want you to live with this.
Every single breath.”
He coughed again—weakly. I didn’t move. I
didn’t call for help. Because part of me
needed him to feel what I felt……alone,
unloved, and drowning in blood.
I didn’t touch him. I watched. I watched
Mfundo bleed—his blood pooling around my
feet like karma had nally found its rhythm.
Every drop that spilled from him felt like a
truth being revealed. A truth I had ignored. A
truth I had forgiven. A truth I was done
running from. He wheezed.
Mfundo: “Tholakele… I can’t…”
Me: “You can’t what?”
I asked coldly.
Me: “You can’t breathe? Or you can’t face
what you did to him?”
His mouth opened. Closed. He coughed
blood again—this time spraying it across my
tiles like a signature. He’d always been clever.
Charming.
Quiet in corners while the devil did the
talking. But now the devil wasn’t Zakhelikhaya.
It was Mfundo. And this devil was dying. I
walked past him—my voice steady.
Me: “You don’t deserve a hospital. You don’t
deserve mercy.”
Mfundo: “Lungile…”
he choked.
Mfundo: “She—she was pregnant with my
child…”
I froze.
Me: “What?”
His lips trembled.
Mfundo: “She was… my reason to turn.”
The pain behind his eyes—wasn’t fake.
But it wasn’t enough.
Me: “You used her death to justify Zakhe’s,”
I whispered.
Me: “You brought war to our love.”
He reached for my hand. I stepped back.
Me: “You die alone, Mfundo.”
He looked at me with something between
guilt and longing.
Mfundo: “I never hated you… I just knew
you were the bullet that would kill him.”
My tears fell again. But they weren’t for him.
They were for Zakhelikhaya. For the man who
gave me his name. His empire. His
everything. The sirens never came. I never
called. And Mfundo? He passed out before
midnight. I sat on the step with my gun in my
lap. Zithulele cried in the background. My
mother’s voice whispered from the kitchen,
Mama: “He’s not worth your soul, mntanami.”
But I didn’t answer. Because in this war?
None of us had a soul left.

CHAPTER 79

It had always been red. That room. The one in

Zakhe’s mother’s backyard, behind the
slaughterhouse. I used to think it was a
storage place. A shed. A forgotten part of the
kingdom. But it wasn’t. It was the heart of it
all. And now? Now it whispered his name like
a prayer. Like a warning.
Bawi: “Tholakele…”
Bawi’s voice broke through my trance.
Bawi: “Are you sure you wanna go in alone?”
I nodded. I was done asking for permission.
Zakhe had left me with too many questions
and too much re to burn quietly. I opened
the red door. Inside, the air was thick with
scent—blood, cologne, burnt rubber, old
money, lust, and gunpowder. On the walls?
His maps. His secrets. His plans. But what
shook me wasn’t what I saw. It was what I
heard. A voice. Faint. Recorded on loop from
an old tape recorder on the table, dusty with
time.
“If I die, don’t look for my soul in heaven.
I buried it in her mouth, the night she kissed
me like war.”
My hand trembled.
Me: “Zakhe…”
His handwriting was all over the walls.
Messages. Diagrams. Traps. Revenge lists.
But in the center? A painting. Of me. Naked.
On re. Crowned with bullets. The caption
underneath said:
“Queen of Ash. The Only One Who Knew Me.”
Bawi came in slowly.
Bawi: “There’s more.”
She opened a trap door behind a rug. We
walked down steps into a space that looked
like a church—but painted in vengeance.
Candle wax dripped like blood. Photos of
enemies burnt and pinned. A picture of
Mfundo’s face, circled in red with the word
LIAR written across it in Zakhe’s blood. There
were tapes too. Voice notes. Plans for if he
died. Backup vaults. Blackmail les. But what
made me sit on the floor and cry? A letter. To
my wife…
If you’re reading this, I’m gone. Or I’m
planning to be. Maybe this life never gave me
mercy, but loving you was the closest thing to
salvation I ever knew. Don’t run. Finish what I
started. Be Zulu until your last breath. I’ll be
watching from re. —Zakhelikhaya Zulu.

I screamed into my hands. He knew. He

planned. He never left me behind. The red
room didn’t just whisper his name. It
screamed it. And I? I wasn’t just a widow. I
was his weapon now.
 I stayed on the floor long after Bawi left me
alone. The candlelight trembled like it knew
something I didn’t. Everything about this
room was him. His madness. His love. His
war. His poetry. And I nally realized…
Zakhelikhaya Zulu had been building a
legacy, not just a kingdom. The walls were
lined with journals, maps with strings, crime
scene photos, and poems—so many poems
written in both Zulu and English. One of
them, barely legible, looked like it was written
with blood:
She kissed me with her eyes open. So I
loved her with my hands closed. I died with
her name stuck in my throat. Ngafa ngisho
engakaqala ukuhamba.
My name. It was everywhere. On the floor
beneath the painting of me, etched into wood
with a knife, it said:
"Tholakele Zulu. Already mine."
The deeper I went into the room, the more
alive he felt. There was a scent of cigar
smoke, old leather, sweat, and cologne. I
closed my eyes and breathed him in. And
then—behind a cabinet, I found something.
A box. Locked. Heavy. But Zakhe had left a
key. It was on the back of the letter he wrote
me. A code I used to tease him about when
we were younger:
“Zulu 411” I punched it in on the lock.
Inside the box?
 A flash drive.
  A folded black flag.
 A necklace. My name engraved on it in
red diamonds.
 A gun. Silver, engraved, untouched.
 And a single envelope that read:
“Burn what betrays you. Crown what loves
you.”
I gasped. He hadn’t just left me to grieve. He’d
left me instructions. A plan. A path. And a
re. I stood, clutching the gun and the
necklace. Put the necklace on. Lit the last
candle. Then I turned to Bawi, who stood
silently in the doorway, eyes glistening.
Me: “He didn’t die for nothing,”
I said. She nodded, mouth trembling.
Bawi: “What now?”
 she whispered. I looked around the red room
one last time.
Me: “Now we start a war,”
I said. I didn’t know what I expected when
Bawi led me through the dark halls of
Zakhelikhaya’s hideout. But this? This was a
cathedral of secrets. A crimson room lit by
flickering red bulbs and one dying candle.
The air was thick, as if grief itself had taken a
seat and decided to never leave. And on the
far end—his jacket. Still hanging. Still
smelling like him. The same one he wore the
night he whispered, “If I ever disappear, I
won’t be far. Just follow the re.” The walls
were red. The sheets red. The writing on the
mirror—blood red.
"Tholakele Zulu. Even in death, I am yours."
My knees buckled, but I didn't fall.I couldn’t.
Because the whispers in that room weren’t
mine. They were his. Soft. Sharp. Certain.
"Don’t cry now, sthandwa sami… You already
survived worse."
"Pick up the blade. Light the match."
"Finish what I started."
On the desk lay his favourite notebook. Black
leather. Scratched edges. I opened it, hands
trembling.
Entry 99:
If I die, don’t bury me. Burn the map. Burn
the traitors. Let her walk into my shadows and
own them. Let her speak for me. Love for me.
Kill for me. Tholakele… they'll call her mad
before they ever call her Queen. Let them.
I couldn’t breathe. Not because I was weak—
But because he knew. He knew I would come.
He knew I’d nd this place. He knew I'd hear
him again in the silence. And Bawi, standing
behind me now, barely whispered,
Bawi: “He wanted you to lead.”
On the bed was a single envelope with my
name, burned on the edges. Inside? A key.
And a photo of the last men who stood with
him. On the back: “Trust no one but her. Not
even blood.” I turned to Bawi. The room no
longer scared me.
Me: “I’m not grieving anymore,”
I whispered. She nodded.
Bawi: “Good. Because your crown’s in here
somewhere.”
CHAPTER 80

The re died slowly. Not with ash. Not with

smoke. But with silence. The streets of uMlazi
had been loud for days—sirens screaming,
bullets clapping like thunder, and mothers
howling as sons were zipped in plastic. But
today? Today, the streets held their breath.
Zakhelikhaya’s name, once whispered in fear,
now lingered like a prayer. I stood outside the
remains of his last safe house. Charred walls.
Bullet holes. Blood still wet on the gravel.
They didn’t even give it time to dry before
washing the legacy away. I didn’t cry. I
couldn’t. Because crying meant I believed it
was over. But this city… it remembers. The
children playing on the corner still wear his
name on beaded bracelets. The old men at
the taxi rank still tell stories about how he
once stopped a war by standing in front of a
gun. And the women? The ones they called
“Zakhe’s girls”?
They’re the ones feeding the children of his
enemies. The re didn’t stop because it was
defeated. It stopped because it was done
choosing. At Gogo Deli’s grave, I placed the
same red matchstick Zakhe always carried
behind his ear. I lit a candle. Not for him. Not
for me. But for what was left of us. I
whispered,
Me: “We’re not ghosts. Not yet.”
And the flame danced, even as the wind tried
to steal it. Later that night, Bawi found me on
the roof.
Bawi: “Everything’s changed,”
she said. I nodded.
Bawi: “I saw Mfundo,”
she continued.
Bawi: “He’s not hiding anymore. He’s wearing
Zakhe’s ring.”
My heart didn’t skip a beat. It stopped. Then
restarted, slower. Harder.
Me: “He’s trying to become him,”
I said. Bawi laughed bitterly.
Bawi: “He thinks Zakhe’s throne is just an
empty chair.”
I turned, the city’s broken skyline in my eyes.
Me: “He doesn’t know that thrones built in
blood demand blood back.”
So I picked up Zakhelikhaya’s last gun.
Loaded it. Kissed it like it was his mouth. And
whispered,
Me: “This time, I burn them.”
I slept on the floor that night. No mattress.
No blanket. Just cold cement and the jacket
Zakhelikhaya once threw over my shoulders
when we hid behind that shebeen. The one
with his scent still trapped in the collar —
blood, gunpowder, and something sweet…
like danger soaked in honey. Bawi sat across
from me, polishing bullets like they were
earrings. She didn’t say much. She didn’t
have to. Her silence had grown louder since
Zakhe’s death.
Me: "How long will we stay like this?"
I asked. She shrugged.
Bawi: "Until Mfundo makes his move."
I walked into the kitchen, and Mama Siphiwe
was there, barefoot, feeding soup to a boy
with a stitched-up shoulder. He looked
twelve. He wore a Zakhelikhaya Zulu pendant
around his neck.
Me: “You feeding soldiers now?”
I asked her gently. She nodded, wiping the
boy’s mouth.
Siphiwe: “He fought for you,”
she said.
Siphiwe: “He lost a brother… just a few days
ago. Said Zakhe promised them a future.”
I swallowed hard.
Siphiwe: “Zakhe’s promises live longer than
Zakhe,”
she added. And it broke something inside me
I didn’t even know was still whole. Later that
day, I walked into his Red Room. It was
untouched. His chair still turned toward the
open window, as if he’d be back soon. I
walked slowly to the wall where he wrote his
secrets. They were still there — the names of
those he saved.
Tholakele
Bawi
Sibonelo
Gogo Deli
Khulekani
Zola
And at the bottom, in red ink that had started
to fade:
“If I don’t make it, tell her… I didn’t stop
loving her. Even when I became something
unloveable.”
My knees buckled. I screamed. Not loud. Not
broken. Just… raw. Like grief nally tasted
freedom. When I rose, I took a blade from his
drawer and carved my name beside his.
Tholakele Zulu. I wasn’t waiting for anyone to
crown me. I already was the crown. That
night, I walked into the street. Zakhe’s jacket
on my back. His dog tags in my palm. His
voice in my head. And the city watched.
Some looked away.
Some bowed.
Some trembled.
Because they knew…
The girl he died for had become the woman
they should fear.
They buried him in silence.
No roaring engines.
No gunshots.
No war cries.
Just the wind.
And my breath shaking against the weight of
goodbye. He was wrapped in Zulu silk. The
one I bought him on our last day in Ulundi.
He said he’d only wear it when he was king. I
guess he did. In death. People came. From
every part of the streets he used to own. The
Avanza boys. The ones who sold chips at the
corners. Mothers whose sons he buried.
Fathers who used to fear him… and now
respected his name. Gogo Ntombi sat on a
chair near the grave, her hands trembling
with memory. She didn’t cry. She hummed.
Ntombi: “Zakhelikhaya, uyibekile induku
ebandla…”
She sang it softly. Over and over. Until the
ground swallowed the last man who made my
heart feel like war and peace at the same
time. That night, Bawi and I sat on the rooftop
of what used to be his hideout. She had a
gun on her lap. I had a bottle of something
strong on mine.
Bawi: “You good?”
she asked, not looking at me.
Me: “No.”
Bawi: “Me neither.”
And we didn’t speak after that. Because
sometimes the silence between two people
says more than any words. And sometimes…
it hurts more. Around 2 a.m., I stood alone by
the wall where his blood had once written my
name. The city didn’t burn anymore. No
flames. No smoke. Just ghosts. Ghosts of
everything we could’ve been. Ghosts of what
he left behind. And in that moment, I knew—
He didn’t die for peace. He died so I could
become the kind of re the world would
never forget. The streets were unusually
quiet. Even the dogs didn’t bark. Even the rain
didn’t dare fall. Like the world knew—
something bigger than a man had just died.
Zakhelikhaya Zulu wasn’t just a king of the
underworld. He was the spine of this chaos.
And now? The city walked like it had a limp. I
wore the red dress he loved. The one with the
slit up the thigh and the open back. He used
to call me inkosikazi yami when I wore it. He
said it made me look like a flame you’d walk
into without fear. Now I wore it like mourning.
Lips red. Eyes dry. Heart? Ashes. Bawi didn’t
cry either. She stood next to me like a
shadow that had seen too much. Behind us,
Mfundo’s men stood far back, like they were
afraid of my grief. As they should be. Because
I was done praying. Done begging for peace.
Done hoping the war would end with Zakhe.
It didn’t. It just changed generals. They
lowered his body into the earth. No cof n.
Just the silk. And his gun across his chest.
A symbol.
A warning.
A legacy.
The priest said words that felt too small for a
man like him. And when it was my turn to
speak, I didn’t. I knelt. Kissed the soil. And
whispered into the ground:
Me: “You were my favourite destruction,
Zulu.”
Back home, I sat in his car one last time. The
engine still purred like it knew him. I traced
my ngers along the steering wheel. Then on
the seatbelt—the one he always pulled across
me when I forgot. He used to say, “I can’t lose
you. Not before me.” But he did. And I lost
him. While still breathing. The re in me
didn’t burn that day. It froze. Everything froze.
Because the day he died was the day the
world stopped burning. And I nally
understood— Not all res end in flames.
Some end in silence. In soil. In the sound of
your own name, said by no one.

CHAPTER 81
Bawi’s POV
The courtroom smelled like old wood,
polished lies, and cold justice. I’d never felt
more out of place. I wasn’t built for suits and
gavels. But today, I stood taller than grief.
Today, I wasn’t Zakhelikhaya Zulu’s cousin. I
was Bawinile Zulu — the only woman in the
room who had seen every deal, every
betrayal, and every bullet fall. They didn’t
expect me to show up. They thought I’d stay
hidden in blacked-out BMWs and shisanyama
shadows. But Zakhe died with secrets on his
tongue. And I came to unchain them. I walked
in wearing all white. Not for peace. For war.
Every step I took echoed with the weight of
his legacy. Mfundo sat across the room.
In a navy suit that tried to clean his hands.
But I could still see the blood. He smirked.
That Mfundo smirk—the one that always
came before a funeral. But today wasn’t mine.
Prosecutor: “State your name for the record.”
I stared at the prosecutor. Then at the judge.
Then at the world.
Me: “Bawinile Zulu,”
I said.
Me: “And I’m not here to weep. I’m here to
speak.”
The courtroom held its breath. I told them
about the money laundering through
churches. The girls traf cked through
nightclubs in Pinetown. The weapons
imported in crates marked as prayer mats. I
gave names. Dates. Bank accounts. And
then— I told them what Zakhelikhaya
whispered to me before he died. That Mfundo
had traded our bloodline to the police in
exchange for a clean record. That he’d
poisoned deals. Orchestrated hits. And worst
of all— Tried to kill me and Tholakele in that
warehouse two years ago. I had receipts.
Voicemails. And the bloody letter Zakhe wrote
in his nal moments. Mfundo stood up and
shouted,
Mfundo: “She’s lying!”
But I didn’t flinch. The judge silenced him.
The gallery whispered like a storm brewing. I
wasn’t just testifying. I was burying him
without a grave. When it was over, I stepped
down from the witness box like a woman
unchained. And I passed Mfundo’s table.
Leaning in, I whispered:
Me: “You should’ve made sure I died too.”
Then walked out of the courtroom, leaving
ashes in my heels. Outside, the cameras were
waiting. Microphones like hungry mouths. I
wasn’t here for them. I kept my head down.
Not in shame — in strategy. Because while
the court clapped its dusty hands,
the streets were still watching. And the streets
knew: Testifying in front of a judge might feel
like justice, but real revenge was born in
whispers behind tinted windows. My heels hit
the pavement like drumbeats. A black BMW
pulled up. Spha opened the door for me.
Silent, like always. Loyal, like blood. He didn’t
speak until we pulled off.
Spha: “You sure they’ll lock him away?”
I looked out the window at the city that raised
and ruined us.
Me: “No,”
I said.
Me: “But I’ve started the re.”
Later that night, I sat in Zakhe’s old room. The
curtains still carried his scent — oud and
gunpowder. On the desk, his chain still lay
untouched. The one he never took off. I
picked it up. Felt the cold metal. Heavy like
promises. Sharp like memories. I slipped it
on. Over my white shirt. Over my bruised
chest. Not for style. For protection. The door
creaked. Tholakele walked in, her eyes red
but her spine iron-strong. She sat across
from me. Didn’t say a word. She didn’t need
to. We’d lost the same man. In different ways.
Thola: “You were brave today,”
she whispered.
Thola: “Braver than anyone expected.”
I looked at her, tears threatening but not
falling.
Me: “I wasn’t brave. I was broken.
And when you’re broken, you either bleed
quietly… or you burn everything down.”
She nodded. Then reached out, touched
Zakhe’s chain around my neck.
Thola: “He’d be proud.”
Me: “No,”
I said, voice low.
Me: “He’d be pissed.”
We both laughed. It was bitter, raw, and real. I
stood up and turned off the light. The war
wasn’t over. It had just changed uniforms.
And tomorrow? I was going back to the
streets. To nish what my cousin died
starting.

CHAPTER 82

The night Zithulele laughed for the rst time,

the whole world shifted. It was a soft sound,
barely there—like a whisper catching re in a
quiet room. But to me? It was everything.
Months had passed since the courtroom.
Since Mfundo’s chains clanked in the dark.
Since the city tried to forget Zakhelikhaya’s
name. But nothing could erase what we
carried inside. The weight of loss. The taste
of revenge. The hope for something better.
And then—there was Zithulele. His tiny
ngers curled around mine. His eyes bright
and curious. And then— That laugh. It started
with a gurgle. A coo. And suddenly, the whole
house was lled with light. I swear, even the
shadows paused to listen. Bawi was the rst
to hear it. She burst into my room, eyes wide
and laughing.
Bawi: “Thola! He’s laughing! He’s really
laughing!”
Me: “He is”
I smiled. Zithulele, my son, my legacy,
smiling at me like I was the only home he’d
ever need. In that moment, the re inside me
softened. Not gone, just… tempered.
A reminder that even in the darkest places,
life nds a way. That night, I whispered to
him:
Me: “You’re not just Zakhe’s son. You’re the
beginning of a new story. A story that burns,
but never destroys.”
And as I held him close, I nally allowed
myself to believe— That maybe, just maybe,
the flames could bring light too. The laughter
lled the room like music. Soft, pure,
unburdened by the weight of our past. I
cradled Zithulele against my chest, feeling his
tiny heartbeat against mine. It was steady.
Strong. De ant. He was more than just a
baby. He was our future. Our hope wrapped
in flesh and bone. The nights weren’t as dark
anymore. I found myself smiling when I woke
up, even though the memories still burned.
Bawi sat beside me, watching Zithulele with
the tenderness I sometimes forgot to give
myself.
Bawi: “He’s magic,”
she whispered. I nodded, tears slipping down
my cheeks.
Bawi: “Zakhe’s magic, alive again.”
I sang to him—the songs my mother taught
me, the lullabies Zakhe loved. And when he
laughed again, it felt like the streets
themselves exhaled a long-held breath.
This laugh was more than a sound. It was a
promise. A promise that even after re and
blood, life will nd its way. I kissed his
forehead, knowing the path ahead was still
dangerous. But for the rst time, I believed
we could walk it—together. That laugh was a
sound I’d been waiting for through every
sleepless night, every whispered fear, every
heartbeat that skipped for no good reason. I
held him close, feeling the rise and fall of his
tiny chest, the warmth of new life against the
cold memories that haunted these walls. He
was the rst sign of something unbreakable.
The proof that even in the darkest re, life
nds a crack to grow through. I caught Bawi’s
eye across the room — her smile was soft
but erce.
Bawi: “We survived,”
she said. I nodded, feeling the weight of
those words settle in my bones. It wasn’t just
about surviving anymore. It was about
building. Zithulele’s laugh echoed through the
house like a prayer — one that asked nothing
for itself, but promised everything for what
was to come. And in that moment, I
understood: He wasn’t just Zakhe’s son. He
was the re we carried forward. I whispered
softly, pressing my forehead to his,
Me” “You’re the story that burns, but never
dies.”
And he laughed again — bright and alive,
lighting up a world that had forgotten how to
hope.
CHAPTER 83

The walls were still raw — the paint barely

dry, the floorboards creaked with newness.
But this house wasn’t about perfection. It was
about legacy. Zakhelikhaya had dreamed of a
place like this. Not just a home — a fortress.
A sanctuary for the broken, the lost, the
survivors. I stood in the doorway, Zithulele
sleeping in my arms, and felt the weight of it
all. This house was his last gift to us. A
promise carved in concrete and sweat. Every
brick told a story — the ghts Zakhe had
fought to keep this land, the deals struck in
shadows and smoke, the blood spilled in
silence. Bawi was already there, hanging
curtains, turning this space into something
alive.
Bawi: “This is more than a house,”
she said softly.
Bawi: “It’s a future.”
I nodded, tears threatening but held back.
Because hope wasn’t easy. It wasn’t given —
it was earned. In the backyard, a small garden
bloomed. Zithulele’s rst footsteps would be
here — on this soil, on this land Zakhe had
claimed with his life. I whispered to the wind,
Me: “This is for you, Zakhe. For your re. For
your dreams. For our son.”
The sun set behind the hills, casting long
shadows over the house. And in that light, I
saw more than walls and windows. I saw a
home. I saw family. I saw a future worth
 ghting for. I ran my ngers along the smooth
wood of the kitchen counter, imagining the
meals we’d share here — loud, messy, lled
with laughter. Not the quiet silence that had
become our soundtrack. The windows caught
the last rays of sun, flooding the room with
warmth — a stark contrast to the cold nights
I’d spent alone, waiting for Zakhe to come
home. Bawi brought in a box of old photos
— pictures of Zakhe, the streets, our family.
She smiled sadly.
Bawi: “He wanted us to have this. To
remember who we are.”
I opened the box, tracing his face in every
frame. That crooked smile. Those erce eyes.
The way he looked like he was both king and
soldier.
Bawi: “Thola,”
Bawi said,
Bawi: “We’re building more than walls here.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of her words.
This house was a shield against the darkness.
A place where Zithulele could grow up safe.
Where we could heal. That night, I tucked
Zithulele into his crib. I whispered promises
into the quiet:
Me: “This house is yours. Built with blood,
yes. But also with love. You will never be
alone.”
As I closed the door, I felt something I hadn’t
in a long time — peace. Not because the war
was over. But because I had a home to ght
for. The nights were still heavy with
memories, but this house gave me space to
breathe. To dream. To plan. Zakhe had built
more than walls — he built a future. A place
where Zithulele’s laughter could drown out
the ghosts. I walked through the rooms,
imagining the life waiting to happen here. The
rst steps. The rst ghts over TV remote.
The smell of cooking drifting from the
kitchen. This was our fresh start. Our
rebellion against a past soaked in blood. Bawi
and I sat on the porch as the sun dipped low.
She sipped her tea, eyes soft but erce.
Bawi: “Zakhe wanted us to have this,”
she said.
Bawi: “A home worth ghting for.”
I nodded, feeling the re inside me burn
steadier now. That night, I wrote my name on
the deed. Not just as owner, but as guardian
of his legacy. Because this house wasn’t just
ours. It was the promise that we would keep
rising — no matter the ashes. The house was
quiet now, but it held echoes. Echoes of
laughter that never came. Echoes of footsteps
that would soon ll its halls. I walked from
room to room, tracing Zakhe’s dreams in the
dust on the floor, the rough edges of
un nished paint. This house wasn’t just bricks
and mortar. It was the last piece of Zakhe’s
heart — a battleground turned sanctuary.
Outside, the garden waited to bloom. I
imagined Zithulele running barefoot through
the grass, the sun warming his face. A future
Zakhe never got to see. I whispered to the
wind,
Me: “We’ll make this a home, baby boy.
A home your father fought to give you.”
Bawi joined me on the porch, her hand warm
on my shoulder.
Bawi: “We carry him here,”
she said softly.
Bawi: “Every brick, every corner.”
I nodded, tears slipping silently down my
cheek. This house was a fortress. Not just for
us — but for everything Zakhe stood for. That
night, as I laid Zithulele in his crib, I
promised myself one thing: No matter what
storms came, this house — our home —
would stand.

CHAPTER 84
The of ce was cold and smelled of polished
wood and power. A place where decisions
were made—decisions that could change
lives. Today, it was my turn to sit behind the
heavy desk. The papers lay before me, thick
with legal jargon, but one line caught my
eye—owner: Tholakele Zulu. My name,
written in ink that promised more than
ownership. It was a declaration. A stake in a
world that had tried to take everything from
me. I traced the letters slowly, feeling the
weight settle on my shoulders. This wasn’t
just about property. It was about control.
About legacy. About ghting back without a
gun. The lawyer looked at me expectantly.
Lawyer: “You’re the sole owner now, Mrs.
Zulu. This house, the land—it’s yours.”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Me: “Yes,”
I said quietly.
Me: “This is my home. And I will protect it.”
Outside, the city buzzed, unaware of the quiet
victory taking place inside those walls. But
inside me, something roared. A re rekindled.
Because for the rst time, my name was on
the line. Not as a shadow of a man. But as a
queen in my own right. Later, I called Bawi.
Me: “We did it,”
I told her. She laughed, erce and bright.
Me: “Now they have to deal with you.”
And for the rst time in a long time, I
believed it. This was more than a deed.
It was a promise. That no matter what the
streets said, no matter who tried to take us
down— Tholakele Zulu owned her story. I
signed the papers with a steady hand, each
stroke etching my name deeper into the life
Zakhe had fought to build. This wasn’t just a
signature. It was a declaration of survival. I
placed the deed in the drawer next to Zakhe’s
old gun—the past and the future side by side.
They were both heavy, but mine to carry now.
Bawi’s words echoed in my mind:
“You own this. And no one can take it away.” I
smiled, feeling the re inside me burn steady
and bright. That night, I stood on the porch,
looking at the city lights flickering like distant
stars. Zithulele slept peacefully inside,
unaware of the battles fought to give him this
life. For him, for us, I would keep ghting.
The sun was setting when I nally stepped
outside with the deed folded carefully in my
pocket. The city was breathing—busy, loud,
relentless. But I felt a quiet power settle deep
inside me. This paper was more than legal
proof. It was a claim to my future. A shield
against anyone who thought they could erase
us. I passed by the BP Garage—the place
where Zakhe and I rst met, where the re
started. I smiled to myself, thinking: From
those streets to this house, from that girl to
this woman— I had come far. Bawi was
waiting for me outside the courthouse.
Her eyes shone with erce pride.
Bawi: “Your name’s on it,”
 she said.
Bawi: “Now, no one can say you don’t own
this story.”
I nodded, feeling the weight and the strength
of those words. That night, I held Zithulele
close and whispered promises into his tiny
ears. This house, this life—it was ours. Built
on love, on loss, on re. And with my name
on the deeds, I knew one thing for sure: I was
ready for whatever came next.

CHAPTER 85
Zakhe’s POV - FLASHBACKS

The walls were bare, but they whispered

secrets. Red letters smeared across the
crumbling plaster. Zakhelikhaya Zulu. His
name—written in blood, a message that cut
deeper than any bullet. I remember the night
I wrote it. The city was burning— res lighting
the sky like angry stars. They thought they
could silence me. They thought my death
would bury the truth. But words, like blood,
spill. And some things refuse to die quietly. I
dipped my ngers in crimson and carved my
name where everyone would see. Not as a
threat. But as a vow.
I was here.
I fought.
I left my mark.
The gang leaders whispered my name with
fear. The streets trembled at the sight of that
red ink. They knew—Zakhelikhaya Zulu was
more than a man. He was a force.
Tholakele, my love, when you see this—know
that I wrote it for you. For our son. For the
re we carry.
Ink written in blood can’t be erased.
And neither can our story. The night was
thick with smoke and danger. The city was a
war zone, but I had a message to send. They
thought killing me would silence the re.
But the re lives on— in every word, every
mark, every breath left behind. I dipped my
ngers in blood, warm and sticky, the bitter
taste on my tongue. I wrote my name across
the walls of the city—the places we fought to
keep, to protect. Zakhelikhaya Zulu.
Not as a warning.
Not as a curse.
But as a promise.
I was here.
I am still here.
The red ink bled down the walls like the
wounds we refused to show. Every letter a
scar, every stroke a story. For Tholakele, for
Zithulele— this was my nal gift. A reminder
that even in death, the ght continues.
That our legacy cannot be erased. The streets
will always remember the name. Because it’s
written not just in blood— but in the re that
burns inside us all. Every mark I made was a
heartbeat. A pulse beating de ance into the
cold night. The streets whispered my name
—
Zakhelikhaya Zulu — in red, erce and
unyielding. This wasn’t just graf ti. It was a
declaration to the world: I lived. I fought. I
loved. And even if they tried to erase me, my
story would bleed through every crack. I
thought of Tholakele holding our son, the
future I wouldn’t see. This ink was for her —
a message, a shield, a memory. If the city
forgot me, then let the walls remember. With
every stroke, I felt the re inside me grow
stronger. Because legacies aren’t just written
in law or bloodlines. They’re carved into the
soul of the streets. And as the last drop fell, I
knew one thing: No matter what comes next,
I am not gone.

CHAPTER 86
Sometimes, when the wind blows just right, I
swear I hear him— whispers in the shadows,
footsteps behind closed doors, a breath on
my neck when the night feels too quiet.
Zakhelikhaya’s ghost isn’t a spirit trapped in
the past. He’s the pulse beneath the streets,
the re that never fades. The red ink on the
walls has faded, but the message remains.
His name — a tattoo on the city’s soul,
a reminder that he is everywhere and
nowhere all at once. I walk those streets with
Zithulele in my arms,feeling the weight of
both his absence and presence. Sometimes,
the gangsters glance at me differently—
respect mixed with fear. Because Zakhe’s
legacy isn’t just stories and scars. It’s power.
That power breathes through me now. Every
decision, every ght, every quiet moment.
He’s my shadow and my light. One night, I
stood before the wall where he wrote his
name, tracing the faded letters with trembling
ngers.
Me: “I carry you,”
I whispered.
Me: “And I will never let you go.”
Zakhe’s ghost is here.
In the wind.
In the re.
In me.
The city never sleeps, but sometimes it
dreams. And in those dreams, I see him —
Zakhe — watching, waiting, guarding. His
presence lingers in the graf ti, the cracked
sidewalks, the rusted gates. Not just a
memory, but a force. At night, when Zithulele
sleeps, I sit by the window and listen. The
distant sirens, the murmur of the streets,
and sometimes — just sometimes — a faint
whisper.
“Thola…”
I close my eyes and feel the weight of it —
not sorrow, but strength. His ghost doesn’t
haunt to harm. He stays to protect. Because
even in death, Zakhe ghts for his family.
For me.
For our son.
I touch the wall where his name still bleeds in
faded red, and I promise — as long as I live,
his re will burn on. The graf ti had faded
with time, but the feeling it left never did.
Every time I passed that wall, I could feel his
presence—like a shadow stretching across
my skin, a whisper woven into the night air.
Sometimes I’d catch myself reaching out,
as if I could touch the man who had been
taken from me. One evening, standing alone
beneath the flickering streetlight, I spoke
aloud.
Me: “Zakhe, are you really here?”
The wind answered by stirring the leaves,
and in that moment, I believed he was. Not as
a ghost bound by chains, but as a re that
could never be extinguished. His spirit lives
in the ght I carry forward. In the love I pour
into Zithulele’s tiny hands. In every breath,
every heartbeat, every step I take
Zakhelikhaya Zulu—more than a name written
in blood on a wall. He is the pulse of these
streets. The flame in my soul. I whispered
into the night,
Me: “I carry you with me. Always.”
And for the rst time, the city felt a little less
cold.

CHAPTER 87

The rst light of dawn spilled over the BP

Garage like a soft promise. The place where it
all began, where fate collided with re and
blood. I stood there, the cool morning air
brushing against my skin, watching as the
world slowly woke from its restless sleep. The
memories rushed in — Zakhe’s laugh, the
way he leaned against that battered car,
the way his eyes caught the sunlight just
before the storm hit. This garage was more
than just a backdrop. It was our beginning.
Our battleground. Our sanctuary. Zithulele
stirred in my arms, blinking up at the pale
pink sky. I whispered,
Me: “This is where your story started, baby.
Where your father’s re was born.”
People passed by, some nodding in respect,
others wary. The streets knew our names
now. Our pasts. Our battles. But here, at
sunrise, I felt a moment of peace. I took a
deep breath and promised myself —
no matter what the day brings, no matter the
res ahead, this place will always be our
home. The BP Garage didn’t change.
Even after everything. The blood. The smoke.
The memory of gunshots in the distance.
It still stood at the corner of the world like it
always had — half tired, half awake, smelling
of petrol and pap. This was where
Zakhelikhaya Zulu rst looked at me. And
didn’t look away. I parked the car just before
sunrise. Zithulele was strapped in the back
seat, fast asleep, his tiny chest rising and
falling like the peace Zakhe never got. I
stepped out slowly, sneakers crunching
against the gravel. Everything felt like it was
holding its breath —as if the streets
themselves were still haunted by his shadow.
I sat on the low wall, facing the empty road,
hugging my arms like he used to hold me
when words failed him. When loving me was
the only language he still remembered.
Sizwe: “Tholakele?”
I turned. It was Sizwe, one of Zakhe’s old crew
members. He looked thinner now, softer
around the eyes. He sat beside me without
asking. Pulled out a cigarette but didn’t light
it. Just held it like a memory.
Sizwe: “I still hear his voice here,”
he said.
Sizwe: “Clearer than anywhere else. Like he’s
waiting.”
I nodded.
Me: “He is.”
We didn’t talk after that. We just sat, watching
as the golden light slowly spilled across the
petrol pumps, painting the world new. Inside
my hoodie pocket, I felt the corner of a folded
paper. His last words, still unread. Still
burning. And just behind us, Zithulele stirred,
as if something deep in his blood felt it too
— that this place was sacred. BP Garage
wasn’t just where I met him. It’s where I keep
coming back to remember who I am, and
who I’ll always belong to.
Even in re.
Even in silence.
Even after death.
I sat on the low wall a little longer, feeling the
warmth of the rising sun begin to kiss my
face. The sky was turning into a soft orange,
that honey glow that made the BP Garage
shimmer like something holy. I could hear
faint hooting from taxis on the main road.
People were waking up. But I wasn't ready to
leave yet. I pulled out the letter again. Zakhe’s
handwriting—messy, bold, red ink. Like it
was bleeding. Like it knew the end was near.
But still, I hadn’t opened it. Because I was
scared. Scared that his words would make
the grief permanent. That the ink would stain
more than paper. That it would stain me. But
the wind whispered. And Zithulele stirred
again in the backseat. So I unfolded it.
Slowly. Carefully. Hands trembling like the
rst time he ever touched me.

“My Love,
If you’re reading this… then it means I’m no
longer standing in front of you, arms wide
open, ready to ght the whole world. And I’m
sorry. I didn’t want to leave you. But death
has always had its eyes on me — I just
hoped I’d outrun it long enough to grow old
beside you. I built things in my life. Empires.
Names. Fear. Respect. But you… you’re the
only thing I ever built with love. You softened
the beast in me. You gave me peace in rooms
where bullets lived in the walls. You gave me
Zithulele — a future I never thought I
deserved. So don’t cry for me, sthandwa
sami. Just remember me when the sun rises
over this BP Garage. That’s where I rst saw
re — and it didn’t burn me. It saved me.
You did. Raise our son like I would’ve. Tell
him about the man I tried to be. And when he
asks you why I’m not there — Tell him:
“Because your father gave his life to make
sure you could have one.”
Ngiyakuthanda.
Always.
Zakhelikhaya.”

I wept. But they weren’t wild tears. They were

quiet. Warm. Like a goodbye kiss that doesn’t
ache anymore. I folded the letter and tucked it
back into my hoodie. Stood up. Looked
around one more time. Then I whispered to
the air,
Me: “I’ll raise him right, Zakhe. He’ll carry
your name with pride.”
Behind me, the city came alive. But in front of
me, the ghost of a man I loved still stood,
leaning against a petrol pump with a smile
only I could see.
CHAPTER 88

The morning after BP Garage, I found the last

hidden envelope. It wasn’t addressed to me.
It was addressed to Zithulele. But something
told me I had to read it now — while he was
still too young to understand. It was slipped
inside Zakhe’s old brown leather jacket. The
one he always wore when he came home
from business at night, smelling like wind,
war, and whisky. The note was folded tight.
No blood this time. No red ink. Just calm,
neat black. Like peace.

“To my son, Zithulele Zulu,”

They will tell you I was a king. A killer. A
leader. A madman. They will build myths
around my name, boy — but only your
mother can tell you who I really was. I was
broken before she found me. Raised by
wolves and concrete, I only knew how to ght
to live. But she reminded me I was alive. You
carry a name soaked in blood and built on
power — but don’t let it drown you. Don’t
become what I was forced to be. Become
what I chose to become when I met her.
Strong.
Honest.
Protective.
Loving.
This world will fear your name, but let your
heart be the part they never see coming. And
if they ever come for your mother…
Finish what I started.
— Zakhelikhaya Zulu
Your father.

I sat there frozen. The letter clutched tight to

my chest. Not from fear. But from the weight
of love passed down in ink. I looked over at
Zithulele, who was rolling on the mat with his
teddy bear, giggling like nothing had ever
been wrong in the world.
Me: “You have your father’s laugh,”
I whispered, wiping my eyes. And maybe…
just maybe… you’ll have his heart too.
I placed the letter in Zithulele’s baby box —
the same wooden box Zakhe had carved
before our son was born. He had burnt little
flames into the edges.
Me: “So he always remembers he was born of
re,”
Zakhe had said, kissing my belly. My ngers
shook as I closed the box. There was still ash
in our lives. But there was peace too. A
strange stillness in the air — the kind that
only comes after the loudest storm. Later that
evening, I went back to Zakhe’s grave. Alone
this time. No cameras. No bodyguards. No
witnesses. Just me and the soil. I brought
two things. A small wooden toy car Zakhe
carved for Zithulele. And the gold chain he
used to wear — the one with my name on it.
Me: “I read your letter,”
I whispered, sitting down.
Me: “He’ll grow into the man you dreamed of.”
The wind whispered through the tall grass.
Me: “I forgive you for all of it. For the blood.
The secrets. The chaos. Even the way you
died.”
I pressed my palm into the dirt.
Me: “But I don’t forgive you for leaving me to
raise this boy alone.”
Silence. The type that echoed in your chest. A
tear slipped down my cheek. Not the angry
kind. Not the desperate kind. The kind that
just… lets go. I smiled.
Me: “I still love you, Zakhelikhaya.”
And I swear… I heard it in the breeze — his
voice, low and raspy, the way it always
sounded when he was soft with me.
“I never stopped loving you, nkosazana yam.”

When I walked back to the car, I didn’t look

back. Because some ghosts live better in
memory than in flesh. And mine? He was
everywhere. In every re. Every streetlight.
Every whispered “Zulu.” But more than
anything… He lived in Zithulele’s eyes. And
that would be enough. I kept thinking the
ache would fade. That grief would come like
waves and then leave the shore dry again.
But Zakhe wasn’t a wave. He was a storm.
And I was still soaked in him. Back at home, I
couldn’t sleep. The house creaked differently
now. Like it knew the king was gone. I walked
through each room of The House Zakhe Built,
barefoot, wrapped in his old T-shirt that still
smelled like musk and gunpowder. Zithulele
was asleep in his cot. His tiny hand wrapped
around the same black beaded bracelet Zakhe
used to wear. I sat down in the lounge and
opened his last message again. The letter had
been written on blood-stained paper — his
thumbprint at the bottom, a mark that looked
like a promise.

"If they take me, tell my son…I died with his

name on my tongue."
"Tell him I was never scared to bleed for my
own."
"And tell you — Tholakele — that I loved you
more than I ever knew how to say."
I folded it slowly and placed it in the replace.
It didn’t feel like betrayal to burn it. It felt like
a release. The flames curled around his
words. His last message turned to smoke.
And I whispered through the ashes:
“I’ll raise him to remember you as more than
re.”
“I’ll raise him to be the kind of man who
chooses love… before blood.”
Outside, the streets were quiet.
But inside me, a decision was forming. The
empire he left behind? The cash, the corner
boys, the guns, the blood-soaked loyalty? It
was mine now. But not because I wanted
power. Because I had to choose what legacy
Zithulele would inherit. And tomorrow, I’d
choose. Whether to burn it all down… Or to
build something softer — on the ashes of a
man who died loving me hard, wrong, and
real.

CHAPTER 89

The morning air was thick with dust and

whispers. The city moved around me, but I
was still — a queen in a world that tried to
drown me in re. Zakhe was gone. But his
name still burned in every corner of these
streets. Today wasn’t a funeral. It was a
coronation. I stood before the crowd,
draped in a white dress — not for mourning,
but for new beginnings. The women who
once called me “just Zakhe’s girl” now looked
at me with respect. The men who whispered
threats now bowed their heads. Because I
was no longer just Tholakele. I was Zulu. I
took the deed in my hand. The house, the
corner, the legacy — all mine. My voice was
steady as I spoke,
Me: “Zakhelikhaya Zulu gave his life for these
streets… for his family… for our son. I will
carry that flame forward. Not as a weapon,
but as a light. For Zithulele. For all of us. I am
Tholakele Zulu.”
The city roared back, the streets alive with the
re of a legacy reborn. And in that moment, I
understood — Being Zulu wasn’t just a name.
It was a promise. A crown forged in pain,
love, and survival. Zakhe’s ghost whispered in
the wind, proud, erce, free. And I?
I was ready to rise.