Sixty-eight

Qhawelezizwe's POV

Tomorrow was the funeral.

I had called my brothers earlier, asking Bafana to inform Sharma about what had happened. Despite the tension still lingering between us over what he had done, now wasn't the time to hold grudges. Sibane's mother had been a mother to her, too. Some things had to be set aside, at least for now.

I found her sitting where she had been all day, silent, unmoving, lost in a world of grief. Her face was empty, void of any expression except for the steady stream of tears trailing down her cheeks. She hadn't eaten. Hadn't spoken. Hadn't acknowledged anyone.