They done waiting

CHAPTER 39
OMPHILE – POV

Being a lawyer means people think you're strong all the time.

Like the law hardens you. Like logic replaces feeling. Like knowing your rights somehow protects your heart.

It doesn't.

I'm still at work, long after everyone else has gone home. The office is quiet now, the kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder. My heels are kicked off under the desk, my blazer hanging over the chair like I abandoned it mid-fight. Files are open in front of me, but I haven't read a single word in over an hour.

My eyes burn.

My head throbs.

And my chest feels… empty.

Yesterday's meeting at the palace plays in my mind on repeat — Olerato standing there with her hand on her stomach, choosing peace over love. Watching her walk away from Khayelihle felt like watching someone cut off a limb to survive.

Painful.

Necessary.

I rub my temples and lean back, staring at the ceiling.

It feels like I'm living inside a movie I never auditioned for.

Gunshots. Hospitals. Kings shouting. Babies crying. Men breaking. Women choosing survival.

Haa.

I'm tired of everything.

Tired of loving men who come with violence wrapped in apology. Tired of families that bleed into you until you don't know where you end. Tired of pretending I'm okay because I know how to argue a case in court.

My phone buzzes.

Instagram.

I hesitate, then open it.

Lindiwe.

Just seeing her name tightens something in my stomach. She hurt us. She hurt Olerato. She hurt this family in ways that may never be fully repaired.

But she also sent that message days ago.

"I want peace. Not war. Please."

I exhale slowly.

Peace doesn't mean forgetting.

Sometimes it just means choosing not to bleed anymore.

I type.

Omphile:

> We need to talk. Not fight. Talk.
For Olerato. For the babies.
If you still want peace, meet us.

The reply comes quicker than I expect.

Lindiwe:

> I do.
I'm tired too.
Name the place.

My fingers hover over the screen.

I think of Olerato's face. Her flat voice. Her strength.

Omphile:

> Tomorrow. Neutral place.
No drama.

I lock my phone and drop it on the desk.

One step at a time.

That's how you survive wreckage.

I stand up, grabbing my bag. My body feels heavy, like gravity has doubled just for me. As I switch off the office lights, I feel it again — that strange sense of being watched.

I turn.

Andile is standing in the doorway.

My heart jumps violently before anger rushes in to replace it.

"What are you doing here?" I ask sharply.

He looks… different.

Tired. Unshaven. His shoulders sag like he's carrying weight he doesn't know how to put down. His eyes soften when they land on me, and that almost hurts more than if they were cold.

"I knew you'd still be here," he says quietly. "You always stay late when you're hurting."

I scoff. "You don't get to know me like that anymore."

He steps inside and closes the door behind him.

Click.

The sound echoes too loudly.

"Andile," I warn. "Don't."

"Please," he says. "Just let me talk."

I shake my head, moving past him toward the door. "I'm done talking."

Before I can take another step, his arm slides around my waist.

Firm.

Possessive.

Familiar.

My body reacts before my mind does — a sharp inhale, muscles tensing instantly.

"Andile!" I snap, trying to pull away.

He tightens his grip just enough to stop me, not hurting me, but not letting go either. His chest presses against my back.

"Let's fix this," he says hoarsely, his mouth close to my ear.
"Please, Omphile. I'm begging you."

Anger floods me.

I twist in his arms, planting my hands on his chest and shoving hard. He stumbles back a step, surprised.

"Don't grab me like that," I hiss. "Ever again."

"I'm sorry," he says quickly. "I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did," I cut in. "That's the problem. You always mean to control before you mean to understand."

His face crumples slightly. "I'm trying."

"Trying isn't enough," I say, my voice shaking despite myself. "You scared me, Andile. Do you understand that?"

"I would never hurt you," he says, the words desperate now.

"You already did," I reply quietly.

Silence stretches between us.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, then stopping in front of me again. His voice is softer now. Careful.

"I'm going to therapy," he says. "Anger management. Real sessions. I sit there and talk about my childhood, about my father, about everything I was taught about being a man."

I fold my arms, guarding myself. "Good."

"I'm learning," he continues. "That I don't know how to love without force. That when I feel like I'm losing control, I try to grab it back with my hands."

The honesty knocks the breath out of me.

"But knowing that," he adds, stepping closer but stopping at a respectful distance now,
"doesn't mean you owe me another chance."

I swallow.

"Then why are you here?" I ask.

"Because I love you," he says simply.
"And because I need you to know that even if you never come back to me, I'm changing anyway."

My chest tightens painfully.

"You don't get to use love as a rope," I whisper. "To pull me back before you're safe."

Tears shine in his eyes. "I know."

I look away, blinking rapidly.

"I asked Lindiwe to meet," I say, changing the subject because my heart can't handle this conversation anymore. "For peace. For Olerato."

He nods slowly. "That's… good. She needs quiet right now."

"So do I," I add.

He takes a step back, creating space between us.

"I won't touch you again unless you ask me to," he says. "I swear."

I nod once.

"I'm leaving," I say, picking up my bag.

As I walk past him, he speaks again — softer, broken.

"I'll fix myself," he says.
"Whether you're there or not."

I pause at the door.

"I hope you do," I reply without turning around.
"Because the next woman you love deserves safety."

I leave the office, the door closing gently behind me this time.

Outside, the night air is cool against my skin. I breathe deeply, grounding myself.

For the first time in a long time, I don't feel weak for walking away.

I feel brave.

And maybe — just maybe —

That's how peace begins.

OLERATO – POV

Omphile tells me we're meeting Lindiwe and I don't know how to feel about it.

Honestly? I don't.

Part of me wants to pretend I didn't hear her. Another part of me is too tired to fight every battle anymore. God will deal with Lindiwe. After everything she did to me… after fighting me, humiliating me, standing in my pain like it was entertainment—only God can judge that properly.

I'm past rage.

I'm in survival mode now.

And in this current situation… I miss Khayelihle.

I miss him so badly it scares me.

I sit on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on my stomach, breathing slowly. The ache in my chest is familiar now—quiet, constant. I've tried to bury it under anger, under pride, under promises to myself that I'm done.

But the truth doesn't care about promises.

I miss my man.

As if on cue, my baby kicks.

Hard.

I gasp softly and then laugh, tears filling my eyes. I rub my belly instinctively.

"Yes," I whisper. "I felt that."

Another kick.

"You want Daddy, right?" I murmur, my voice breaking. "You felt him too."

My throat tightens.

Everyone deserves a second chance… don't they?

The thought scares me because it opens a door I've been trying to keep locked.

My phone buzzes on the bed beside me. Notifications. Messages. Mentions.

Trending.

My name.
The palace.
The shooting.
The heir.

I don't even open them. I'm too fragile for the world's opinions right now. People talk like pain is entertainment, like trauma is a series they can binge and judge.

I stand up abruptly.

I need water.
I need quiet.
I need to breathe.

I head to the bathroom and turn on the shower. The warm water hits my skin and for a second, I just stand there, letting it run over me. Then the tears come.

Real tears.

Silent ones at first, then shaky, broken sobs.

"Uhh… I miss you, Lihle," I whisper to the empty bathroom.

Maybe it's the hormones.

Maybe it's exhaustion.

But deep down, I know that's a lie.

I miss his touch.
The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room.
The way he used to rest his hand on my back when I was tired.
The way he said my name like it mattered.

Everything.

I finish showering, dry myself slowly, moisturize my skin like Segametsi always reminds me to. Small routines feel important now—they make me feel human.

I wear a loose, flowy dress. It's hot outside, and my body needs comfort, not control. I tie my hair back and take one last look in the mirror.

I look… tired.

But strong.

When I go downstairs, the house feels alive in that quiet way it always does.

Onthatile is at the swimming pool, sunglasses on, legs in the water. She looks relaxed but alert, like someone who never fully rests anymore.

Segametsi is in the kitchen, moving around confidently, cooking. My best friend. Always there. Always steady. Even when the world is collapsing.

I smile softly at the sight of her.

This… this is my support system now.

The door opens.

I freeze.

Omphile walks in first.

Then Lindiwe.

The air changes immediately.

Everything in me stiffens.

Lindiwe looks… smaller than I remember. Not physically—emotionally. Her shoulders are tense, her eyes cautious. She looks like someone walking into a room knowing she doesn't belong there anymore.

Onthatile notices instantly.

She stands up from the pool, pulling off her sunglasses.

"So you actually showed up," Onthatile says coldly, walking closer. "I'm surprised."

Lindiwe swallows. "I came to talk. Not fight."

Onthatile laughs sharply. "Funny. That wasn't your energy before."

"Ontha," Omphile warns gently.

"No," Onthatile snaps. "Let me talk. Because some of us had to clean blood and lies while she disappeared."

Lindiwe's eyes flick to me.

"Olerato," she says quietly. "I—"

I lift my hand.

"Don't," I say calmly. "Not yet."

She nods, respecting the boundary.

Segametsi steps closer to me, her presence grounding. Omphile moves to stand between us, protective but hopeful.

"I didn't come here to reopen wounds," Lindiwe says. "I know I hurt you. I know I crossed lines I can never erase."

Onthatile scoffs. "You tried to destroy her."

"I know," Lindiwe admits, her voice shaking. "And I have to live with that."

Silence stretches.

My heart is pounding, but my voice comes out steady.

"Why now?" I ask. "Why peace now?"

"Because everything went too far," Lindiwe says. "Because guns were drawn. Because babies almost died. And because I don't want to be that person anymore."

I search her face.

For lies.
For arrogance.
For excuses.

I don't find them.

Just regret.

"I don't forgive you," I say honestly.

She nods. "I don't expect you to."

"But," I continue, "I'm tired of carrying anger. It's heavy. And I'm pregnant."

My hand rests on my belly automatically.

"My child doesn't deserve that weight."

Tears slip down Lindiwe's face. "I'm sorry, Olerato. Truly."

Onthatile crosses her arms. "Sorry doesn't fix everything."

"No," Lindiwe agrees. "But it's where I start."

The room is quiet again.

Then Omphile steps forward and opens her arms.

"Enough," she says softly. "We're all broken. But we're still sisters."

For a moment, no one moves.

Then I step forward.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Lindiwe hesitates, like she's afraid to hope.

I pull her into a hug.

It's awkward at first. Stiff. Then she breaks, crying into my shoulder. My own eyes fill, but my tears are quiet.

This hug doesn't erase the past.

It doesn't rewrite pain.

But it releases something tight in my chest.

Omphile joins us, wrapping her arms around both of us. Segametsi steps in too, squeezing us all together. Even Onthatile sighs heavily and steps closer, muttering, "I still don't like you," before adding her arms to the circle.

I let out a shaky laugh through tears.

Maybe healing isn't loud.

Maybe it's messy. Uncomfortable. Slow.

But standing there, holding women who hurt me and women who saved me, with my baby moving inside me, I realize something important—

I'm still capable of love.

And that means I'm still alive.

BAB MTHEMBU – POV / NARRATOR BLEND

Bab Mthembu hadn't slept.

Sleep had abandoned him three nights ago, the moment the dreams started — no, not dreams.

Visions.

He sat on the edge of his bed just before dawn, bare feet on the cold floor, his chest tight, sweat clinging to his skin like a warning. The air in his rondavel felt heavy, thick with something unseen. The ancestors had been loud. Angry. Restless.

This was not an ordinary calling.

This was danger.

He closed his eyes and pressed his palms together, breathing slowly.

"I see blood," he whispered into the silence. "Too much blood."

In his visions, Khayelihle stood in the centre — his hands red, not only with his own blood but with the blood of others. Andile's shadow loomed behind him, cracked and splintered. Sbu's path was split in two — one road soaked in tears, the other in fire.

And behind it all…

The Moagi ancestors.

Standing. Watching. Furious.

They were not whispering.

They were shouting.

"You don't spill our blood and walk free." "You don't dishonour our daughters and expect silence." "You don't carry life and bring death near it."

Bab Mthembu's heart pounded painfully.

This was bigger than one gun. Bigger than one fight. Bigger than one family.

This was ancestral wrath.

He stood abruptly and began preparing. He wrapped his traditional cloth around his shoulders, grabbed his staff, and tied the beads around his wrist with trembling fingers.

"They are in danger," he said aloud. "All of them."

He did not delay.

By mid-morning, Bab Mthembu was on his way to the palace.

As the gates came into view, his chest tightened again. The land itself felt disturbed — like the soil remembered everything that had happened and was holding a grudge. Even the wind felt sharp, restless, snapping through the trees like a warning.

The guards opened the gates, immediately recognising him.

"Bab Mthembu," one of them said respectfully. "Is everything well?"

Bab Mthembu did not answer.

He walked straight through.

Inside the palace, the Queen was in the sitting room, rosary in hand as usual, lips moving in prayer. The King stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, his posture heavy with responsibility and guilt.

The moment Bab Mthembu stepped inside, the Queen gasped.

"Bab Mthembu?" she said, rising quickly. "You weren't sent for."

"I was called," he replied gravely. "By those you cannot see."

The King turned slowly, his expression darkening.

"What is wrong?" he asked.

Bab Mthembu planted his staff firmly on the floor.

"Your sons," he said. "All of them."

The Queen's rosary slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the floor.

"My children?" she whispered.

"They are walking under a shadow," Bab Mthembu continued. "A shadow soaked in blood and unfinished wrongs."

The King stiffened. "Speak clearly."

"I see blood," Bab Mthembu said bluntly. "I see death circling but not choosing yet. I see the Moagi ancestors standing in anger."

The Queen's breath hitched. "The Moagis?"

"Yes," Bab Mthembu said, his voice heavy. "They are furious."

The King stepped forward. "For what?"

Bab Mthembu's eyes burned as he met the King's gaze.

"For what your boys did to their daughters."

Silence slammed into the room.

"For the lies." "For the humiliation." "For the pain." "For the child who was shot while carrying life." "For the blood that touched the ground when it should never have."

The Queen collapsed into a chair, clutching her chest.

"We prayed," she whispered. "We asked God for mercy."

"God hears prayers," Bab Mthembu replied. "But ancestors demand accountability."

The King swallowed hard. "What are you saying?"

"I am saying," Bab Mthembu continued, "that if this is not cleansed properly, one of your sons will pay the price."

The Queen let out a strangled sob. "No… not my children."

Bab Mthembu shook his head slowly.

"This is not punishment," he said. "It is balance."

The King's voice was barely audible. "What must be done?"

Bab Mthembu closed his eyes, listening again.

"Acknowledgement," he said. "Truth." "Restitution." "And protection for the womb carrying the future."

The Queen looked up sharply. "Olerato."

"Yes," Bab Mthembu confirmed. "That child is the centre of this storm. If harm touches her again, the ancestors will not warn you next time."

The King's fists clenched. "What about Khayelihle?"

Bab Mthembu's face hardened.

"He walks closest to the fire," he said. "And fire does not forgive easily."

The room was thick with fear now.

"Bring him home," Bab Mthembu instructed. "Bring all your sons under one roof. No weapons. No shouting. No secrets."

"And then?" the Queen asked desperately.

"And then," Bab Mthembu said, lifting his staff, "we cleanse this house. Properly. As families should have done long ago."

Outside, thunder rumbled faintly — even though the sky was clear.

The King bowed his head.

"Do whatever is necessary," he said. "I will not bury my sons."

Bab Mthembu nodded once.

"This is no longer about pride," he warned. "It is about survival."

As he turned to leave, his final words chilled the room:

"The ancestors have waited patiently."

"They are done waiting."