Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty six

Lerato
"Guys, let's pack up and leave. Clearly these fools don't respect us."

No one argued. The decision came with so much fire in our hearts that words weren't even necessary. One by one, we marched back to our hotel rooms, stuffed our suitcases, and zipped them shut with shaky hands. The betrayal still burned in our chests, but the silence between us said more than tears or screams could.

We checked out quietly, the night air heavy around us. It was late, but we managed to catch the next flight back home. None of us spoke much during the journey. Keabetswe had her arms folded tightly across her chest, Lerato stared blankly out the window, and Lethabo tapped her foot impatiently, clearly replaying everything in her head.

When we landed, it was still dark, the city quiet. Instead of going back to the homes we shared with them, we packed the rest of our clothes, grabbed our kids, and drove straight to Lethabo's warehouse.

Calling it a warehouse almost felt wrong — inside, it looked like a fully furnished house. Big leather couches, polished floors, a stocked kitchen, and bedrooms with fresh linen. It had everything we needed. It was our safe haven now.

We made a pact: we would stay here for as long as it took, until those men felt our absence deep enough to regret what they'd done. No phone calls, no text replies. Silence would be our punishment.

I held Tshego close, kissed his forehead, and finally let myself breathe. For the first time since we saw that video, I felt in control again.

Ntandoyenkosi Zulu
We stumbled back into the hotel in the early hours of the morning. Drunk. Loud. Careless. None of us thought beyond the buzz in our heads and the laughter that echoed in the hallways. When I finally hit the bed, the world spun, and then blacked out.

The next morning, pain shot through my skull. My head felt like someone was beating drums inside it. I dragged myself out of bed, dry mouth and heavy eyes, thinking only of Hlelo and how I needed water.

But when I entered our room, something felt… wrong. Too neat. Too empty.

I looked around, pulling open closets, drawers, even the bathroom. Nothing. Her clothes were gone. Her shoes. Even her hair products on the dresser. My chest tightened.

I grabbed my phone immediately. Dialed her number. "The number you have dialed cannot be reached…" I tried again. And again. Nothing.

"Shit. Shit. Shit!" I yelled, pulling at my hair. This wasn't supposed to happen. Last night was meant to be harmless fun — a stupid night of drinking and laughter. Not this. Not losing her.

I called Nkululeko. "Sho, bafo," he answered casually.

"Where's your wife?" I demanded.

"Uh… I don't know, maybe with the girls having breakfast?"

"No, Nkululeko. They're gone. All of them." My voice cracked.

There was a long pause on the other end before he said, "What do you mean they're gone?"

"You know what, let's meet downstairs. Tell the others. Now."

Thirty minutes later, we were all at the lobby. Sizwe rubbed his temples, Senzo had his head in his hands, and Nkululeko paced like a madman. Everyone was talking over each other, voices rising.

"This is your fault, Senzo! We told you not to go live, now the whole world knows what we were doing!"

"Don't blame me alone, you all agreed!"

"Ntando, you should have stopped us, you're the one always acting like you've got sense!"

The blame game went on and on, but the truth was clear: we messed up.

Senzo finally broke the noise. "Let's just head home. Maybe they're waiting for us there. We'll meet here in thirty minutes to check out"

But deep down, we all knew — the women weren't going to make this easy. And the silence on our phones told us we were in for the fight of our lives.