Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Ntandoyenkosi Zulu

I got to the warehouse first. Empty, echoing, smelling like oil, dust, and the ghost of metal work. The kind of place where deals happen quietly and men come in looking one way and leave looking another.

I poured myself a drink from the bottle stashed under the counter. Whisky, no ice. It burned down my throat but steadied my hands. I laid out the plans on the metal table — blueprints, sketches, a list of timings — all written in my handwriting.

Ten minutes later I heard engines growling outside, doors slamming, footsteps. My brothers and cousins walked in — Nkululeko first, eyes sharp, wearing dark clothes like me. Behind him Sizwe and Senzo came carrying duffel bags. We didn't greet with hugs; we greeted like soldiers, nods and firm handshakes.

We circled the table.

"Alright," I said, tapping the papers. "One last time. No mistakes."

Sizwe opened one bag and took out two-way radios, masks, and gloves. "Comms — we use only these," he said. "Channel two. Keep chatter short."

Senzo pulled out a laptop. "I've jammed the GPS on the route," he said. "Their tracker won't ping for at least fifteen minutes. That's our window."

Nkululeko unfolded a map of the city and laid it flat. "Convoy comes from the depot at 21:00," he said. "Two cars ahead, one behind. We hit at this bend — no cameras, no streetlights. We block the road with the truck here." He pointed with a gloved finger.

I nodded. "Sizwe, you're driving the block truck. Senzo, you handle the comms and cameras. Nkululeko, you're with me on the van. Masks stay on until we're clear. No names. No panic. If anything goes wrong, we scatter to point B and ditch everything."

They all nodded. We'd said it a hundred times before but tonight it felt heavier.

"And remember," I added quietly. "No heroes. We're in and out. No blood unless necessary."

Silence hung in the room, thick as smoke. Then Nkululeko clapped his hands once. "Let's do it," he said.

We broke, each of us moving to our own corner, checking weapons, loading clips, double-tying laces, adjusting masks. The warehouse buzzed with quiet focus. In less than two hours, everything we'd planned for weeks would unfold.

I glanced at my phone once. No messages. No calls. Just the weight of Hlelo in my chest.

Hlelolenkosi Hlophe

I woke up from my nap, the kind where the light changes while you're sleeping and you wake up confused. My hair was still damp from the shower.

"Ntando?" I called, voice rough with sleep. No answer.

I sat up and that's when I saw it: an envelope on the lampstand, my name scrawled across it in his handwriting. My stomach dropped.

I opened it with trembling fingers and read it once, then again, slower, like maybe the words would change if I blinked hard enough.

"What the actual fuck…" I muttered. I pressed my palm to my forehead. "Okay. Okay."

I tried to calm myself. Tried not to throw things. Tried not to let my chest cave in.

Instead, I did what Mama always taught me to do when the world felt like it was cracking: I cleaned. I pulled out the broom, the mop, the old rag. I scrubbed counters, wiped mirrors, swept under the couch, switching between genres on my playlist — amapiano, gospel, old school R&B — anything to drown out my thoughts.

By the time I finished, the apartment smelled like lemon and furniture polish. It was around 18:00. My nerves had quieted, but the ache in my chest hadn't.

A knock broke the silence. Sharp. Urgent.

I opened the door.

There stood a woman I didn't know, hair messy, eyes hard. She was holding a baby — no more than a year old — and the child was crying hysterically.

Before I could even ask, she thrust him into my arms. The weight of him startled me; he was warm, wriggling, and loud.

"Please tell Ntando I said I am tired of being a single parent," the woman said flatly. "A man has promised me marriage, but I can't go there with this child."

Then she stepped back.

I stared at her, my heart racing. "Wait—what?"

She didn't answer. She was already turning, already leaving.

I looked down at the baby. His face was scrunched up, his tiny fists pumping the air, his cries echoing off the apartment walls.

"Great," I whispered. "Just great."