Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Ntandoyenkosi

"Yeah," he said, voice low as if speaking louder might undo what he'd just done. "I was supposed to be gone the moment I got here, but I wanted to make sure you'd be okay. Now that you are, I can leave."

Something in the way he stood—calm, steady, like stone—made a crease of trust open in my chest. Maybe it was the way he had moved in the fight, as if he'd done that kind of thing his whole life. Maybe it was the look in his eyes when he told me my name and didn't ask for anything in return. Whatever it was, I decided to take the risk. I told him everything.

I told him about the bank, about the money for the coffin, about the 28s and how they'd turned my life into a war the day I said no. I told him about the nights I had sat on that thin mattress thinking how unfair the world was, and about the way Mama's voice still came to me at odd hours, telling me to keep going. I told him about Hlelo—the sister I left behind—and how she worked herself raw so she could study and pay for two futures. Saying her name made my throat tight.

When I finished, the cell was quiet except for the steady breathing of the others. He watched me for a long while before he asked the question that kept me awake at night.

"So why do they want to kill you?" Ntandoyenkosi asked, the words simple but cutting straight through me.

"I refused to be their girl," I said, and the memory tasted like copper. "The bank we hit was in their territory. I thought it would be a quick one—grab the cash, bury Mama, get out. But because I said no to them, because I didn't let them own me, they put a target on my back. Any minute now they can decide to 'remove' me. It's how things are done."

He didn't flinch. He didn't blink away from the mess of my life. He just nodded like he understood exactly what it meant to be marked.

"Okay," he said after a breath. "I'll see what I can do."

Those words felt small and enormous at the same time. I wanted to laugh and cry and punch the wall—relief was so strong it almost scared me. I pushed the fear down with a crooked grin.

"Okay," I said, forcing calm. "But if anything happens to me—if they take me—there is my sister. Please, take care of her. Protect her." The plea came out raw, the kind of vulnerability I rarely let anyone see. My voice shook.

He stepped closer and placed his hand on my shoulder, a rough, solid press that steadied me. "You're my brother now," he said. "I got you."

We shook hands then—no pomp, no speeches—just two men sealing something that felt like blood. Around us, a few heads nodded, the cell recognizing the pact. In prison, alliances were currency; you either had them or you were poor. And now, for the first time in a long while, I felt like I wasn't entirely alone.

That night I lay on my bunk listening to the sounds of the ward: the distant laughter, the low threats, the guards' boots. Ntandoyenkosi's promise echoed in my mind. I didn't know if he would keep it. I didn't even know if leaving tomorrow was real. But I held onto the shape of the promise like a lifeline.

Outside the iron bars, life kept moving—the city oblivious, Mama's grave growing older, Hlelo fighting through another day at university. Inside, plans were being made in whispers and phone calls through cracked screens. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, clinging to the small comfort that maybe, just maybe, someone would watch over my sister if the worst came.

And for the first time since the day the officers knocked, I let myself believe that some kind of future might still be possible.