Chapter 1

Chapter One

Two Years Later

It's been two years since Mama passed away, and two years since Nkosinathi was sentenced. But it all still feels like yesterday. Two years, and the grief hasn't healed—it clings to me like a shadow. I cry myself to sleep more nights than I'd like to admit. People say time heals all wounds, but sometimes time just makes you realize how deep the scars go.

Still, life doesn't wait for anyone. Complaining won't put food on the table, and tears don't pay rent.

I woke up early, the sound of taxis hooting on the main road in Alexandra dragging me out of sleep. I rolled off my thin mattress, washed my face with the cold water from the basin, brushed my teeth, and pulled my hair into a neat bun. My morning routine had become my way of staying sane: bath, tidy the shack, pack my books, and whisper a small prayer that the day wouldn't swallow me whole.

Then I threw on my blue scrubs. They always made me feel proud, even on the hardest mornings. I was in my final year at the University of the Witwatersrand, studying nursing—Mama's dream for me, and now mine too. Carrying my bag over my shoulder, I joined the rush of students and workers heading into the city.

Lectures dragged on, but I pushed through, taking notes, forcing myself to focus. After classes, I made my way to the library. The smell of old books and fresh paper always calmed me. I went over my notes until the words started blurring, then packed up and hurried down the road to the restaurant where I worked evenings.

"Evening, Hlelo!" one of the waitresses called out as I walked in.

"Evening, family," I smiled, though my feet already ached at the thought of the long shift ahead.

In the bathroom, I changed into my black-and-white uniform, pinned on my name badge, and tied my apron. I checked myself in the mirror—eyes tired but determined—and then stepped out to begin my shift.

The hours stretched long. Orders came in non-stop, customers filled every corner, and the clatter of plates and chatter of voices drowned out the small whispers of exhaustion in my head. But by the time we closed, it was so late that I couldn't risk walking home.

I ordered an Uber, the cost burning a hole in my already empty pocket. Township trips were never cheap, but safety was priceless. By the time I got home, it was well past midnight.

Inside my shack, I quickly cooked pap and fried some eggs—the simplest meal, but it filled my stomach. I ate in silence, the room too quiet without Nkosinathi's jokes or Mama's voice.

Before I climbed into bed, I made a mental note:
Tomorrow. I have to see Nkosinathi tomorrow.