Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Hlelolenkosi Hlophe

I must have drifted off because the last thing I remember was lying on my mattress, staring at the ceiling. In my dream, everything was soft and quiet. Mama was there, and bhuti Nkosinathi too. No pain, no shack, no loneliness. Just peace.

Then, somewhere far away, I heard pots clattering. I frowned. Pots? I live alone.

I opened my eyes slowly. The shack was dim now, evening light leaking through the thin curtains. But the sound was still there—metal on metal, someone opening cupboards. My heart skipped.

No. I'm dreaming.

But I wasn't.

I sat up, my pulse hammering. In Alexandra, our shacks are packed so tightly that you can hear your neighbour's sneezes—but this was inside. Inside my shack.

I swallowed hard, trying to summon courage. My bare feet hit the cold cement floor. Quietly, I crept toward the small kitchen corner.

And then I saw him.

An unfamiliar man stood over my two battered pots, dishing food onto a plate like he owned the place. Broad shoulders under a black hoodie, sleeves pushed up, tattoos snaking down his left arm. Black sweatpants, black sneakers. His hood half-covered his face, but not enough to hide the sharp jaw, the dark eyes watching me.

I gasped. Panic shot through me.

Before I could turn and run for my phone in the bedroom, he moved—fast, like a shadow. In a flash, his hand was on me, gripping my wrist.

"Leave me alone!" I screamed, kicking, struggling. "Leave me alone!"

He didn't flinch. He lifted me like I weighed nothing, carried me back to the couch and set me down with a force that wasn't quite a push but wasn't gentle either.

His voice was deep and commanding, the kind that made your skin prickle.
"You better sit your ass down until I'm done saying what I want," he growled. "Unless ufuna ukukhala."

My breath caught. The way he spoke, the tone, the mix of Zulu and English—it wasn't a joke.

I stared at him from the couch, eyes wide, heart in my throat. I refused to cry. I wasn't going to give him that satisfaction.

He turned back to the stove and took his time, dishing up more food like nothing was wrong. Sat down in front of me, eating. The smell of pap and meat filled the tiny shack.

Then he looked up, eyes locking onto mine.
"Sawubona, mama."

That simple greeting made my stomach twist. I didn't know why. A stranger, dangerous, and yet my body betrayed me with a strange heat rising in my chest. I hated it.

I kept my face blank, no reaction.

"Hlelolenkosi," he said, my name rolling off his tongue. "Ngikhuluma nawe."

How does he know my name? How did he even get in here?

I watched him quietly, trying to keep my hands from trembling. He was undeniably handsome but there was something about him—something that made my instincts scream danger.

He finished his meal, stood up, and to my shock carried the plate to the sink. He washed it, wiped his hands, and came back to sit down in front of me again, closer this time.

I stood, desperate to do anything, to break the tension. "I need to go unhang the washing," I muttered.

But before I could take a step, his hand shot out, catching my wrist again. He pulled me back with a speed that made my breath hitch. My back hit the cold tin wall of the shack with a dull thunk. The sun had already set outside, and now the thin metal pressed icy against my skin.

His face was inches from mine now. Those dark eyes bore into me, unreadable.