CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 45

[KUKHOKONKE]

I stare at him, stunned.
A drink. I'm fasting.
He suddenly laughs out loud, shaking his head as if trying to break the heaviness in the room.
"I'm sorry," Mr Motha says gently. "I'm sure you don't drink."
I actually do drink but not today. And I'm at work. And I'm fasting.
"I'm fasting," I say softly. "So I can't. I'm sorry."
He sighs quietly and nods, accepting my answer without question.
"Everything was done behind my back," he starts slowly. "No one told me. No one approached me about this."
I feel my heart sink.
I already know what story is coming, the truth about how his sons were conceived but I don't interrupt him. I let him speak. This is his pain to unpack.
"Both my wife and my brother kept quiet," he continues, his voice low and tired. "They never told me about the arrangement that my family suggested."
He pauses, then exhales.
"After three years of marriage with no child, my family started asking questions. They wanted to know when Kedibone and I were going to have children. They said the family name needed heirs."
He shakes his head slowly.
"My businesses were doing well, but I didn't care about pressure," he says. "I told them that when the time was right, we would be blessed with children. That we should wait on God and our ancestors." His voice cracks slightly.
"They didn't like that at all," he continues. "They didn't want to hear about waiting, or faith, or ancestors. They told me Kedibone would be there raising the children while I went out to 'build the legacy' they were demanding."
My jaw tightens.
Elders can be bullies.
They dig their noses into marriages and make demands as if love and bodies belong to them.
"At that time," he goes on, "my brother Molapo already had two children of his own. He wasn't married."
He rubs his hands together slowly.
"I think they saw me as the responsible one," he says quietly. "The one who would shine the Motha name in the world. The one who would carry respect."
The burden in his words is heavy.
"So they made decisions for me," he adds. "About my marriage. About my bloodline and about my life."
My heart aches for him.
"Are Molapo's children still alive?" I ask gently. "Or…?"
"Yes," he replies calmly. "They are alive. They are also part of the family business. Everyone is involved. They do come to see us."
There is no anger or sadness in his voice.
Only exhaustion.
A man who loved his sons without knowing the truth. A man who raised children that were never biologically his and still calls them his own.
"So of course, Kedi and I tried," he continues after a moment. "We tried and tried, but no baby came. I told her she shouldn't stress about it. I told her to forget about the elders and just live. I believed that when the time was right, we would be blessed."
He sighs deeply.
"But you know our culture," he says quietly. "People talk. My family talked behind our backs. They blamed Kedi. They said maybe she was the problem."
He shakes his head slowly, pain written all over his face.
"As always, it is the woman who is blamed when things don't work," he adds. "No one ever said, 'What if our son is the problem?' Not once. It was always her."
My chest tenses up.
"That put her under a lot of stress," he continues. "And I could see it. I told her she should go on vacation, relax, forget about my family's demands. I promised her I would deal with the elders myself. I promised her I would fix this."
His eyes drift back to Pule's notebook on the table.
"I think it was about a week later," he says slowly, "when we went home together. We sat with my family. I spoke firmly. I told them to stop abusing my wife. I told them to let us run our marriage the way we see fit."
He pauses.
"And surprisingly," he adds softly, "they backed off."
My heart sinks, because I already know what comes next.
"What I didn't know," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "is that behind my back, they went to my wife."
I hold my breath.
"They told her about my infertility," he says quietly. "They told her I could not give her children. And then they told her she should sleep with my brother, Molapo."
His jaw tightens.
"They did this without my knowledge. Without my consent. Without my voice."
He swallows hard.
"And I guess," he continues slowly, "with all the pressure, the shame, the fear of disappointing the family… she finally gave in."
I gasp softly, This was not love.
This was not a choice. This was pressure disguised as culture. Cruelty hiding behind tradition.
"Sir… did you know you couldn't…?" I ask gently, careful with my words.
He looks at me and slowly shakes his head.
"I didn't," he whispers.
What?
I blink in disbelief.
"I didn't know," he repeats, his voice cracking. "Everyone knew I had a problem, but I didn't know how they found out. None of them came to me. No one told me that I couldn't have children on my own."
My hand flies to my mouth. Shock freezes me.
His family. His own brother.
Even his wife.
They all knew and kept it from him.
They hid something so personal, so life-changing, from the one person who deserved to know the truth.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. It's all I can say.
He gives me a sad, tired smile.
"It's okay," he says softly. "I've healed. I've learned to live with it."
He is strong. Stronger than I think I could ever be.
We sit in silence for a moment. My shoulder sinks like the truth itself is pressing down on me.
Then he clears his throat.
"So… after about a year of me standing up to my family, they backed off," he continues. "Not long after that, she fell pregnant."
He pauses, his eyes distant.
"She was happy. I was happy. The whole family was happy. Everyone was celebrating that I was finally going to be a father."
I feel a tight knot in my chest.
"Time passed," he says quietly. "And Tsietsi was born. My firstborn."
He lets out a small laugh, but it's broken, hurt.
"I don't even know how long it went on," he continues. "How many times. I would sit alone and ask myself… How long were they doing this? How many times did it happen? Those thoughts still come sometimes."
He shakes his head slowly.
"But I was afraid to ask. Afraid of the answers. Afraid of destroying everything."
I nod silently. I understand that fear.
"So how did you find out?" I ask gently.
"When Pule was three years old," he says. "My father became very sick. He was bedridden. One day he called me home. He said there was something he needed to tell me."
His voice grows heavier.
"I rushed there. We were alone in his room. That's when he told me."
He swallows hard.
"Not everything. Just the part that mattered most. That Tsietsi and Pule were not my children. That my brother, Molapo, stepped in to protect my name. To protect my image."
He laughs bitterly.
"Because in our society, a man who can't have children is not seen as a man. He becomes a joke. A laughing stock."
My stomach twists.
"My father said Kedibone agreed because she loved me," he continues. "Because she didn't want people to know. Because she wanted to protect me."
He pauses, then chuckles softly, almost in disbelief.
"I was angry," he admits. "Very angry. I said terrible things to my father that day. Things I still regret."
He sighs deeply.
"I stormed out of his room. I wanted to come back to Johannesburg immediately. I wanted to confront my wife. My brother. All of them."
He looks at me.
"But I couldn't."
"Why?" I ask softly.
He exhales hard.
"I was scared," he says. "Scared that what my father said was true. I didn't want to believe it."
His voice drops even lower.
"So instead… I went to the doctor. I ran tests."
He stops, choking on his breath.
"And my worst nightmare…"
"Yoh…" He can't finish the sentence.
Jesus Christ, this is really sad. And fucked up.
"So, I was planning on divorcing Kedi," he says quietly, "But I couldn't."
I blink and tilt my head, confused.
"What?" I ask softly, stumbling over my words. "Why? You didn't confront them?"
He smiles sadly and nods.
"As stupid as it sounds," he says, "I loved her too much. I loved my sons too. And she went through so much just to protect my image… to protect my manhood, my masculinity."
He leans closer, his voice heavier again.
"She was carrying all that pressure alone. The abuse from my family, the whispers, the demands, it broke my heart when I later realised she endured all of that without my knowledge, without my support."
He pauses, thinking hard, his eyes distant.
"It reminds me of the time we didn't even know she was pregnant with Pule," he continues. "I think she was being pressured again to give me another child. She started drinking a lot… too much. When I asked her why, she would just say I wouldn't understand."
His voice drops.
"I begged her to tell me what was wrong, but she never did. Then one night, when I was out of town, I got a call from the hospital. She had been in a car accident. Nothing serious, they said. And that's when I found out… she was pregnant."
That knot on my chest again.

I lean back in my chair, my thoughts racing.
Maybe I judged her too harshly.
She was going through hell. No one deserves that. No woman deserves that kind of pressure, that kind of silence, that kind of loneliness. It makes me think of Diamond.
What if it was her? What if my family did this to her?
What if they asked Khulekani to step in and get her pregnant, and she couldn't tell me because she loved me too much?
Because she was afraid of hurting me while she was drowning inside?
Kedi was a victim too.
No one protected her. Not her husband. Not her family. Not even the culture that claimed to be doing this "for the family."
And now everything makes sense.
Her drinking, the stress.
"So…" I say quietly, my voice steady, "her excessive drinking caused complications for Pule?"
Tsietsi's words echo in my mind, sharp and cruel.
"When Tsietsi… the day he…" I pause, unable to say the word killed. My chest knots. "He said to Pule, at least no one will be stressed taking care of a mentally unstable person like you," I repeat slowly.
Mr Motha huffs, clicking his tongue softly.
"Yes," he says quietly. "Her excessive drinking caused many complications for Pule."
I don't rush him. I let him speak at his own pace.
"When Pule was born," he continues, his voice slow and tired, "he was very small. Very fragile. The doctors said he was alive, but something was not right. He didn't cry like other babies. He didn't respond the way newborns usually do."
He swallows hard.
"At first, they told us he was just slow. That maybe he would catch up. That we should wait."
I sigh inwardly, already knowing where this is going.
"But time went by," he says. "Months passed. Years passed. And Pule stayed… behind. He struggled to speak. He struggled to understand things other children understood easily. He struggled to remember, to focus, to learn."
He rubs his hands together, staring at them like they carry answers.
"They later explained to me that alcohol during pregnancy can affect a baby's brain," he says softly. "Not only physically, but mentally. Emotionally and developmentally. Some damage cannot be undone later."
I nod slowly, I feel a lump on my throat.
"Pule's brain did not develop the way it should have," he continues. "It affected how he processed information. How he trusted people. How he reacted to stress. He was gentle but confused. He wanted to please. He wanted to belong."
My eyes burn. I blink hard, trying to stay composed.
"He was not intellectually strong," Mr Motha admits painfully. "Not because he was useless. Never that. But because his brain was harmed before he even entered this world."
Silence fills the room.
"I tried," he adds, his voice cracking. "I tried to protect him. I enrolled him in special support programs. I spoke to teachers, doctors, pastors, and traditional healers. Everyone."
He exhales shakily.
"But this world is cruel to people who are different," he says. "Pule was always seen as weak."
He shakes his head slowly.
"Even his own family was harsh to him."
"I'm so sorry," I say quietly. "For what you and Pule went through… actually, for what your whole family went through."
He nods slowly, eyes distant.
"I am disgusted by Tsietsi," he says, his voice heavy. "I thought he loved his brother. I was wrong."
He pauses.
"For a long time, I even suspected my wife and my brother. I thought maybe Pule saw something… maybe he walked in on them and wanted to tell me."
His breath catches, pain cutting through every word.
This is so sad.
"But he was smart, he was able to hide these things," I say, trying to lighten the tense conversation.
He smiles faintly.
"Yes, he was. I just need to find out what was on that phone, because in this notebook, all he wrote is that Tsietsi and Kedi beat him up," he says sadly. I can't believe this, abusing and beating someone who is already vulnerable. Now it makes sense why I saw the handwriting of a child.
"So, his handwriting didn't improve? I saw a glimpse when you opened the notebook," I ask, curious despite the sadness I'm feeling.
"It was getting better, I guess he was just in a hurry and wrote with this handwriting. Want to read?" he asks. I shake my head no. I've heard enough; my heart won't handle it.
"It's okay, sir. It is meant for your eyes only. Even the recordings on the phone are only meant for your ears," I say gently and politely. Pule's story is painful. I've done my part.
I blink as I remember something. "By the way, Pule saw his mother giving a maid a bottle of water and something else, I couldn't see what it was but when your wife saw that Pule caught her, she was scared. The maid was scared too and ran back to the house. I saw this in the vision the time you found me outside," I tell him.
He frowns, thinking hard.
"He did write something about a maid and a bottle of water here," he says, rubbing his hands over his face. "I need to get to the bottom of this. I should go to that guy and get into this phone," he adds while standing up.
I rise from my chair too.
"Let me walk you out," I say.
.
.
.
.
We reach the parking lot. At least he listened and brought a bodyguard with him; I don't trust Tsietsi, his wife, or the brother. We pause beside his car.
"Thank you. When I find the truth, you'll be the first person to know. I might even come back here so we can talk about the payment," he says warmly.
I sigh.
"I don't think I'll be here in Y3 for long. I might resign soon. I just need to get a few things sorted so I'll be able to build," I say tiredly. I feel drained, emotionally and physically. All I want is to go home and sleep.
His eyes blink, flickering with unexpected joy.
"Oh, you want to build? Here or KZN?" he asks curiously.
I groan softly as I realise that even in KZN, I'd still need to build from scratch.
"Yes. So much work to do," I say. That's all I manage.
He nods slowly, smiling, as the guard opens the car door for him.
"I hear you. Let me get going. I'll call you," he says, and I help him get into the car.
As I'm about to turn around, I pause.
I look at him curiously.
"Do your brother and your wife know that you're aware of the truth?" I ask.
He chuckles softly.
"No, they don't know," he says.

•••••

[MNOTHO]

I lean back in my chair, scrolling through the contracts and tenders on my tablet. My mind moves fast, filtering the opportunities that actually make sense. Some are too small. Some are too complicated. And some… I can already see the profit and the risk before I even read the fine print.
By the end of this year, I'm done supplying government hospitals. They drain too much energy for too little return. Maybe I'll stick to government clinics for now, smaller, easier to manage, fewer politics.
I'm already supplying private clinics, medical centres, and private hospitals, and that side is growing fast. New medical centres and clinics are opening almost every month. That's where the real money is, fewer delays, fewer excuses.
We're already in talks with two new pharmacies that opened in Mulbarton. I don't understand why they're stalling. The deal is clean. The pricing is fair. Something doesn't add up. Maybe they're testing patience, maybe they're waiting for a better offer. Either way, I don't like delays.
As for Velaphi, I think I'll need him after all. I might even secure tenders on that side without lifting a finger. I'll support him, fund his campaign, back him where it matters, make sure he wins. He gets the chair, becomes mayor, and I get contracts and tenders through him. A win-win situation.
I just hope he doesn't develop the same wild fantasies his brother had.
Because if he does… I won't hesitate to deal with him permanently. I'll kill him.
Even though government tenders piss me off, they're slow, messy, and never-ending, I can't lie, they have money. A lot. Running this company isn't easy. Some days it feels like I'm carrying the world, like every mistake falls on me alone. Every late night, every endless call, every stupid form, it's exhausting. But it's worth it. Always worth it.
And honestly… It led me to her. All this grind, all this headache, all the stress… It brought me to the love of my life. And when I think about that, all the frustration fades, if only for a moment. Everything suddenly makes sense.
Talking about the love of my life, she said she'd come and show me the dress. I hope it's only the dress because I know her. She can be freaky. I might walk into our bedroom and find her in lingerie, maybe even get cuffed. I need to prepare my heart now. I do not want a heart attack this time around.
"By the way, can you please order flowers and send them to my house?" I tell my PA.
Fanyana frowns slightly. He's been my PA for years, and he used to be friends with Mtho before Mtho got lost in substance. I doubt they're friends anymore, Mtho cut off a lot of people, said he was fine alone. That kid had always been… weird.
"Flowers?" he repeats. I nod, placing my tablet down. Let me call Nikky and check if she's home.
I grab my phone and start dialing. It rings three times before she answers. There's a commotion where she is. I frown, and my heart skips a beat.
"Where are you?" I ask.
"Hey baby," she greets, sounding jolly.
"Where are you?" I repeat, nerves spiking.
"I'm heading home with Mtho. There was a fight, nothing serious, don't stress," she says. This woman. People are fighting around her, and she tells me not to stress? Does she even realize how crazy people are?
"Please go home. I don't want you to get hurt," I say, firm but gentle. At least she's with Mtho.
"Okay, baby. Bye," she says, and hangs up.
I frown, staring at the screen of my phone. She just agreed without arguing. I blink. That doesn't sound right.
"Sir?" A voice snaps me out of my thoughts. Fanyana is looking at me, confused. Oh, the flowers.
"Don't worry, I'll get them myself. Are we done for the day?" I ask. I need to go home. What time is it even?
"Yes, we are done, but later you have an important meeting you can't miss," Fanyana says. "With the drivers who were working during the hijacking," he adds.
Oh, right. There's some questioning I need to do before I can drop this issue completely.
I still have time. I'll just go home, see Nikky, and then rush to that meeting.
.
.
.
.
Mtho is leaning on the car, drinking water, as I drive in. He frowns when he sees my car. I hop out and close the door. I walk straight toward him, and he still looks confused.
"What happened?" I ask firmly.
He squints, tilting his head from side to side.
"Malume, what are you talking about?" he asks, confused.
I huff.
"Where did you take Nikky? She said people were fighting," I press. "What was she doing there?"
Mtho just blinks at me, then scoffs, amused.
"What?" I ask, shrugging.
He doesn't answer, he just bursts into laughter.
What the…
He laughs for a few good seconds, then shakes his head.
"Malume, you are a gone man," he says softly, still chuckling. "Go ask her yourself."
I freeze, blinking.
"Gone man?" I repeat, confused.
He doesn't explain. He just walks away, still chuckling, leaving me standing there, completely baffled.
It's so nice to see him laugh, I think. I guess some things do change but what the hell does "gone man" even mean?

The moment I walk into our bedroom, I find Nikky on the bed, lying on her stomach, fast asleep.
I quietly lock the door behind me and walk toward the bed. I sit beside her.
"Peaches, are you okay?" I ask softly.
She stirs, then turns her head to look at me. A small smile spreads across her lips.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
I scoff softly.
"I came to see you," I say gently. "Are you okay? Can I give you a massage?" I ask, my voice low and gentle.
"Yeah, I'd love a massage," she says, then frowns slightly. "But aren't you supposed to be at work?"
Work can wait.
I rise from the bed and look back at her.
"Let me go get some oils," I tell her.

"You know, I was worried about you," I say softly, my hands moving slowly on her back.
"I'm sorry for making you worry," she replies gently. "It was a stupid fight, nothing serious. The security guard rushed in and broke it up," she reassures me.
I nod slightly. I guess I'll take that. She looks fine. Mtho looked fine too, he was even laughing. Nothing seems wrong.
"I think I'm going to fall asleep," she murmurs. "Your hands are making me sleepy," she adds with a small giggle.
I chuckle softly, my heart melting at the sound.
"Go to sleep, my love," I whisper. "I'm here. I'll keep massaging you," I say, leaning down to kiss her shoulder gently.
She relaxes under my touch, then speaks again, her voice low, heavy with sleep.
"You know… when we used to visit Sphephelo's parents," she says slowly, "I would pass out. I wouldn't remember how it happened. I'd be talking to his mother, then suddenly I'd wake up later with no memory of what happened in between."
My hands stop.
I freeze. My chest tenses up.
"What?" I ask quietly.
"I would just… lose time," she continues, eyes still closed. "I never understood it."
My heart starts pounding, fast and hard.
"Did they drug you?" I ask, fear rising sharply in my voice.
She giggles softly.
"No, I don't think so. Maybe I was just stressed. I couldn't sleep there anyway. I'm shocked that I can fall asleep so fast in this house without struggling," she says, her voice already heavy with sleep.
My mind starts racing.
This doesn't make sense.
I don't know whether to push her to talk or let her speak at her own pace.
"I'm sorry," I say gently. "You were probably stressed."
I run my hands slowly over her waist, trying to sound calm.
"Yes," she replies quietly. "I once heard that stress and depression can cause memory loss. Maybe that's the reason."
I know stress can cause memory loss.
But this? This feels wrong.
I'm not feeling fear, I'm not panicking.
I'm angry. Very angry.
"I remember telling his sister about it," she continues. "She dismissed me, said maybe I drank too much. Which wasn't true. The man of the house didn't like women who drank too much. He would've kicked me out the moment he saw me drunk."
I huff silently.
Villains. All of them.
My jaw tightens. I can't wait to get my hands on them.
"What business did they run?" I ask carefully.
If they drugged her, it was so she wouldn't hear or remember anything.
"A funeral parlour," she whispers.
I freeze. My breath catches.
A funeral parlour?
Slowly, I turn her body so she's facing me. Her eyes open halfway, still heavy with sleep. My eyes scan her body instinctively. No deep cuts. No visible scars. I release a breath, I didn't know I was holding.
But then another thought hits me.
But what if the scars healed on their own?
What if they took something without her knowing?
"We need to go to the hospital," I say quickly, standing up.
"Hospital?" she groans softly. "No… I'm fine. I just want to sleep, baby."
She turns back onto her stomach.
A knot forms in my stomach.
Something is very wrong.
I bend down and rest my hand gently on her cheek.
"Tell me the name of the funeral parlour," I ask softly.
If I have the name, finding them will be easy.
She will go to the hospital and get checked later.
"Mnotho," she murmurs, eyes still closed, "I want to sleep. Please."
She pauses, then adds quietly, almost pleading,
"You don't deal with funeral parlours. Please stay away from those people."
I bite my tongue, fighting the urge to push harder.
She doesn't sound defensive. She sounds exhausted.
"Okay," I say after a moment. "Sleep, my love. We'll talk later."
Her body relaxes almost immediately. Her breathing slows. Within seconds, she's asleep.
I stay seated, frozen.
A funeral parlour. Memory loss?
Passing out without knowing how.
Waking up with no recollection and her concerns were dismissed.
I gently pull the blanket over her and stand up slowly, careful not to wake her. I step back and look at her properly.
"I promise you," I whisper, more to myself than to her,
"I'll find out what they did to you."
I walk out of the bedroom and close the door softly behind me.