The cost of loving zulumen

CHAPTER 37
KHAYELIHLE – POV

Hospitals have a way of shrinking you.

Stripping you down until all that's left is guilt, fear, and the echo of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

I sat with my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow me whole. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. No matter how hard I clenched them, no matter how many times I rubbed them together, the tremor stayed — a reminder of what those hands had done.

What they had almost taken.

Around me, everyone from tonight sat scattered across the waiting area like survivors of a shipwreck.

My mother prayed quietly, her rosary wrapped so tightly around her fingers her knuckles had turned white. The King stood by the window, staring out into the dark parking lot, his shoulders heavy with a shame that wasn't entirely his — but carried his name anyway. Segametsi sat beside the Queen, silent now, emptied of tears. Onthatile hadn't looked at me once. Not even by accident.

And Omphile…

She looked at me like I was already dead.

Andile stood a few steps away, arms crossed, jaw clenched, avoiding my eyes. Sbu paced like a man possessed. Melikhaya kept his arm protectively around Onthatile, as if shielding her from me.

From us.

From the curse we seemed to carry.

Then the doors opened.

Every sound in the hospital disappeared.

A doctor stepped out.

My heart stopped.

"Mr. Khayelihle?" he called.

I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floor.

"Yes," I croaked.

The doctor looked at all of us, his expression careful. Measured.

"Olerato is awake," he said.

The words hit me like oxygen after drowning.

I staggered forward, gripping the back of the chair to keep myself upright.

"She's… she's awake?" I repeated.

"Yes," he nodded. "She lost a lot of blood, but we managed to stop the internal bleeding in time."

My mother gasped. The Queen let out a broken sob.

"And the baby?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper now. "Please… tell me about the baby."

The doctor met my eyes.

"The baby is fine," he said. "Strong heartbeat. No distress."

My knees buckled.

I dropped back into the chair, covering my face as a sound tore out of my chest — half sob, half prayer.

Thank you, God.
Thank you.
Thank you.

"But," the doctor added gently, "she's emotionally fragile. You need to be careful. Stress could cause complications."

"I understand," I said quickly. "Please. I just want to see her."

He hesitated, then nodded. "Five minutes. That's all."

Five minutes.

How do you fit regret, love, and apology into five minutes?

They led me down the corridor, every step heavier than the last. I could hear machines beeping softly as we approached her ward. The door was slightly open.

I stopped.

My chest tightened.

What if she hated me?

No — not what if. She had every reason to.

I pushed the door open slowly.

She was lying there, pale against the white sheets, her face streaked with fresh tears. Tubes ran from her arm. Her hand rested instinctively on her stomach, protective even now.

Alive.

Breathing.

Beautiful.

Broken.

"Olerato…" I whispered.

Her head turned.

The moment our eyes met, she broke.

She started crying — deep, shaking sobs that ripped through me like knives.

"You," she said hoarsely. "You did this."

I rushed to her side, dropping to my knees. "I'm so sorry," I said, the words spilling out uncontrollably. "I swear to you, I never meant—"

"You shot me, Khayelihle!" she cried. "You shot me while I was carrying your child!"

"I know," I sobbed. "I know. I hate myself for it. I will hate myself for the rest of my life."

She turned her face away, tears soaking into the pillow.

"Ntlogele," she said weakly. (Leave me.)

I shook my head. "I can't. Please. Just listen to me."

She laughed bitterly. "O batla ke reetse eng?" (What do you want me to listen to?)
"Another lie? Another secret you decided I wasn't worthy of knowing?"

"I was scared," I said. "That's not an excuse — I know that — but I was terrified of losing you."

She snapped her head back toward me.
"Jaanong o nkhutlhela bana ba gago?" (So you hid your children from me?)
"Bana ba gago ba phela, Khayelihle. Ba hema. Ba a gola." (Your children are alive. They breathe. They are growing.)

My throat closed.

"I didn't know how to tell you," I said softly. "Every time I tried, I saw your face when you lost the baby before. I saw your pain. And I panicked."

She shook her head slowly, disbelief etched into every line of her face.

"Ga o a nkanyega," she whispered. (You didn't trust me.)
"Ke ne ke tshwanetse go itse. Ke molekane wa gago." (I should have known. I am your partner.)

"I know," I said. "And I failed you."

Her voice rose, trembling with fury and heartbreak.

"O ne wa ntlhophela mo lefifing!" (You left me in the dark!)
"Ke ne ke tshela le monna yo o nang le botshelo jo bongwe kwa thoko!" (I was living with a man who had another life on the side!)

I reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.

"Don't touch me," she said sharply.

That hurt more than anything.

"You looked me in the eyes every day," she continued, tears streaming freely now,
"o nkitsa o nthata — while somewhere, your daughters were growing up without you!"

"I was sending money," I said desperately. "I tried to be there from a distance—"

"A distance?" she laughed bitterly.
"Bana ga ba gole ka madi, Khayelihle!" (Children don't grow on money!)

Her breathing became uneven.

The monitor beeped faster.

"Rato," I said quickly. "Please. Calm down."

She pointed weakly at her stomach.

"Ke ne ke tshaba go latlhegelwa ke mongwe gape," she cried. (I was afraid of losing another one.)
"And you brought a gun into my life."

Tears streamed down my face as I pressed my forehead to the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry," I whispered again and again. "I'm so, so sorry. If I could take it back—"

"But you can't," she said quietly.

The door opened slightly.

A nurse peeked in. "Time's up."

I looked at her one last time.

"I love you," I said. "No matter what you decide… I love you."

She didn't answer.

As I stood to leave, she spoke — her voice soft, shattered.

"Ke tshwanetse go ipoloka le ngwana wa me jaanong."
(I have to protect myself and my child now.)

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"I understand," I said in English. "Even if it destroys me."

I walked out of the room knowing one truth with terrifying clarity—

She survived the bullet.

But our love?

It might not.

OMPHILE – POV

I shouldn't have gone with him.

Every instinct in my body screamed that the moment Andile said, "Let's go to my house," nothing good would come from it. But I was exhausted — emotionally hollowed out by the hospital, by blood-soaked floors and truths that kept exploding like grenades in our faces.

I didn't have the strength to fight anymore.

So I followed him.

The drive was silent. Heavy. The kind of silence that presses against your chest until breathing feels like work. Andile's hands were tight on the steering wheel, his jaw locked so hard I could see the muscle twitching. He didn't look at me once.

Not even when we pulled into his driveway.

The house was dark, cold, too quiet for a place that had once felt safe. The moment the door closed behind us, something shifted. The air thickened. Like a storm locking itself in.

"Sit," Andile said.

I didn't move.

"No," I replied. "Say what you want to say."

He turned to face me slowly, his eyes burning. "You don't give orders in my house."

I laughed — a dry, broken sound. "Your house?"
I shook my head. "You almost got my sister killed tonight. Don't talk to me about authority."

That did it.

He crossed the room in seconds, stopping inches from my face.

"You think I wanted any of that?" he snapped. "You think I planned for my brother to pull a gun?"

"You fought for it," I shot back. "You lunged. You escalated it."

His eyes darkened.

"So now it's my fault?" he asked dangerously. "Everything is always our fault, neh? The men. The brothers. The bloodline."

"Yes!" I shouted. "Because you solve everything with violence!"

He scoffed. "You're standing here alive because of violence."

I stepped closer, my chest heaving.
"And my sister is lying in a hospital bed because of it!"

Something in his face cracked — just for a second — before rage rushed in to seal it shut.

"Watch your mouth," he warned.

"Why?" I demanded. "Are you going to hit me too?"

The room went still.

His hands curled into fists.

"Don't push me, Omphile."

I felt tears burn behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

"O tshwanetse go mpolaela gore o ikwe o le monna?" (Do you have to hurt people to feel like a man?) I spat.

His breath hitched.

"You don't get to question my manhood," he growled.

"I do," I said, my voice breaking now.
"Because I loved you. And I still walked out of that hospital feeling like I was dating death itself."

He turned away suddenly, pacing the room like a trapped animal.

"You think I don't feel it?" he shouted. "You think I don't hear the gunshot every time I close my eyes?"

He stopped near the window.

"You walked away," I said quietly. "When I needed you to hold me, you chose your brothers. Again."

He spun around. "They're my blood!"

"And she's my blood!" I screamed back. "Olerato is my sister!"

The words collided between us.

His breathing grew uneven. His hands shook.

"You want to know the truth?" he said hoarsely. "I don't know how to choose anymore."

"That's the problem," I replied. "You never choose us."

Silence.

Then suddenly—

CRASH.

His fist slammed into the wall beside the window.

Glass shattered everywhere, raining down like violent confetti. The sound was sharp, terrifying, final.

I screamed, stumbling back as shards scattered across the floor.

Blood immediately bloomed across his knuckles.

"Andile!" I cried.

He stared at his hand like he didn't recognize it.

"Look what you make me do," he said, his voice low, unsteady.

I froze.

"No," I said slowly, shaking my head. "Don't you dare."

He looked at me, eyes wild.

"You push and push—"

"Stop," I cut in, tears finally spilling. "You don't get to blame me for your violence."

He laughed bitterly. "You think you're innocent?"

"I think I'm tired," I said.
"Tired of guns. Tired of blood. Tired of loving men who break things when they can't control their emotions."

I stepped over the glass carefully, my heart pounding.

"O a ntshosa, Andile," I whispered. (You scare me.)

That stopped him.

Really stopped him.

His shoulders sagged. His anger collapsed into something uglier — shame.

"I would never hurt you," he said quietly.

"But you already are," I replied.

He reached for me.

I stepped back.

"Don't."

His hand fell to his side.

"I can't do this," I said, my voice shaking but firm.
"I can't love you while wondering if the next argument ends with broken bones or hospital sirens."

"So that's it?" he asked.

I nodded. "That's it."

I turned toward the door.

Behind me, his voice cracked. "I love you."

I paused — just for a second.

"I love who I thought you were," I said softly.
"But tonight showed me who you really are."

I walked out barefoot into the night, glass crunching under my feet, knowing one thing with absolute certainty—

Some love doesn't end because it disappears.

It ends because it becomes dangerous.

SEGAMETSI – POV

I don't know how I'm feeling right now.

My chest hurts in a way I don't have words for — not sharp, not sudden — just heavy. Like something has settled there and refuses to move. I always knew dating Zulu brothers came with storms, but I never imagined this much blood, this much pain.

First it was Lindiwe.

Now this.

Guns. Hospitals. Babies fighting for life before they even get a chance to breathe properly.

And somehow, in the middle of all that chaos, Sbu and I are standing in his house, arguing like we're the only two people left in the world.

The door slams shut behind us.

I don't even know who closed it.

"What did you expect?" Sbu snaps, running a hand through his hair. "That tonight would end peacefully?"

I drop my bag on the couch so hard it bounces.
"I expected honesty!" I shout back. "I expected your family to stop destroying everything they touch!"

"That's my family," he says sharply.

"And what am I?" I fire back. "Just collateral damage?"

Silence.

He turns away from me, jaw tight. "You're being unfair."

I laugh — bitter, broken. "Unfair?"
I shake my head, tears already burning. "Olerato is fighting for her life. Emihle was shot. Babies were dumped like trash. And you're telling me I'm unfair?"

He spins to face me. "You think this is easy for me?"

"Yes!" I shout. "Because at the end of the day, you still stand with them. No matter what they do!"

He steps closer. "They're my blood, Segametsi."

"And I'm tired of bleeding because of it!" I scream.

My voice cracks.

The tears come whether I want them or not.

"I warned myself," I sob. "I told myself after Lindiwe that I would never do this again. Never fall for another Zulu man. And yet here I am."

He exhales sharply. "Don't compare me to her."

"I'm not," I say, crying harder now. "I'm comparing the pain."

I sink onto the couch, my shoulders shaking. "Everything I touch with your family turns into tragedy."

Sbu stands there, fists clenched, breathing hard. For a moment, I think he's going to shout again.

Instead, his voice softens.

"You think I don't see it?" he says quietly. "You think I don't feel guilty every time you cry?"

I look up at him through tears. "Then why do you keep choosing chaos?"

"Because chaos raised me," he admits. "Because peace feels unfamiliar."

That breaks something in me.

"I'm scared," I whisper. "I don't want to wake up one day and be another woman crying in a hospital corridor because of you."

He walks toward me slowly, like he's afraid I might disappear.

"I would never let that happen," he says.

"But it already is," I reply. "Maybe not with bullets — but with fear."

I stand up abruptly, wiping my face. "I can't do this tonight."

I turn to walk away.

Before I can take two steps, his arms wrap around me from behind.

I stiffen.

"Let me go."

"No," he says firmly. "Not like this."

I struggle weakly, but he lifts me effortlessly, turning me to face him. My feet barely touch the floor.

"Sbu—"

He cups my face gently, his thumbs wiping away my tears.

"Look at me," he says.

I do.

His eyes are wet.

"I love you," he says hoarsely. "I love you so much it scares me."

I shake my head. "Love shouldn't hurt like this."

"Love hurts when the world is ugly," he replies. "But I need you to know — you're not a mistake. You're not a phase. You're my peace."

My chest tightens.

"You don't get to say that after shouting at me."

"You're right," he says. "I'm sorry. I'm angry at the world, at my brothers, at myself — and I took it out on you."

My lips tremble.

"I don't want to lose you too," he whispers.

The word too shatters me.

I break down completely, crying into his chest as he holds me tighter, lifting me fully now, my arms wrapping around his neck without thinking.

"I'm tired," I sob. "I'm so tired."

"I know," he murmurs, kissing my hair. "I've got you."

He tilts my chin up gently, his forehead resting against mine.

"I love you, Segametsi," he repeats. "Ke a go rata. With everything I have."

Before I can respond, his lips crash into mine.

The kiss is deep, desperate — not gentle, not careful — but full of emotion, of fear, of relief. Like he's trying to pour every apology, every promise, every feeling he can't say into that one moment.

I kiss him back, tears still sliding down my cheeks, my hands gripping his shirt like he's the only solid thing left in a collapsing world.

When we finally pull apart, we're both breathing hard.

"This doesn't fix everything," I whisper.

"I know," he says, resting his forehead against mine. "But I'm not going anywhere."

I close my eyes.

Maybe that's what scares me most.

And maybe — just maybe — it's what I need right now.