Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Nkosinathi Hlophe

Life inside is tough, tougher than I ever imagined. Out there they say, "This is not your mother's house," but in here? They mean it. No softness, no mercy.

The 28s thought they could make me their girl when I first got locked up. But I wasn't having it. I fought back, hard. Since then, I've been living with one eye open and fists ready. Trouble follows you when you show you won't be broken.

To survive, I hustle. I sell cigarettes. In here, everything costs money—even breathing feels like it should. If you don't hustle, you starve.

After taking a quick shower, I walked back to my cell, steam still clinging to my skin. That's when I noticed him. A new face sitting on the lower bunk, calm, eyes sharp.

"Sho," I greeted.

"Eita," he replied.

We locked eyes, no smiles. Just silence. The kind of silence where two men size each other up, testing who's soft and who's not. He nodded once. I nodded back. Respect earned.

Later, we lined up for food. The noise of chains and boots on concrete filled the hall. The smell of watery stew hung in the air. I stood in the queue, a guy behind me, and behind him—the new one from the cell.

Just as I was about to be served, pain tore through my arm. Sharp. Hot. Blood spilled down fast. I turned, dizzy, and saw the blade, the smirk. Before I could react, chaos exploded.

The new guy was already moving, fists and kicks flying like a machine. He fought three, four, maybe five at once, dropping them one by one. One man against a crew—and he was winning. Damn, he could fight.

Then everything went black.

I woke up in the healthcare centre, the white walls too clean for a place like this. My arm was bandaged tight, the sting still alive under the gauze. A nurse in blue scrubs leaned over me, voice calm.

"You're lucky. The knife missed the artery. Another inch, and you wouldn't be here."

She handed me painkillers and antibiotics, explaining how to keep the wound clean. I nodded, though my head felt heavy, my body weak.

Soon after, two guards came and escorted me back to the cell. The gents inside cheered when they saw me alive, clapping my back, grinning like I'd risen from the dead.

I walked straight to the stranger—the man who'd saved me. He stood, waiting. Without a word, he held out his hand. I took it. Not just a shake, but a vow. A silent brotherhood sealed in blood.

"Ntandoyenkosi," he said simply.

"Nkosinathi," I replied.

There was something solid about his presence. Something that told me he wasn't just another inmate.

"Can you organize a phone for me?" he asked, voice low.

"Sure," I said.

It took some hustling, but later that night I slid him a small, battered cellphone. He dialed a number immediately, speaking quickly, voice dropping into slang I didn't catch at first. From the tone, I could tell—this wasn't just a call. It was business.

When he hung up, curiosity burned in me. I hesitated, then asked:

"You leaving tomorrow?"