Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

Hlelolenkosi Hlophe

Life had crept back into a rhythm that almost felt normal. I had a job again, Tshego went to daycare, and the little routines stitched the day together: mornings of scrambling to pack lunches, the soft chaos of drop-off, lectures, shifts, then coming home to the smell of dinner as Ntando and our son walked through the door. By the time they got in, I'd already be halfway through chopping veg or stirring the pot, and we ate together — a small, steady family supper that made the hard things softer.

But lately Ntando had been different. He talked less. When he did speak it felt like he was measuring each word. Sometimes he'd stare at the TV but not see it; other times he'd be in the middle of a sentence and stop, like the rest of his thought had been swallowed. I asked him — gently, more than once — and each time he shrugged it off with a tired smile or a joke. The girls noticed it too. At lunch one day, Lerato said, "My man's jittery as well." Keabetswe nodded. Lethabo frowned. It wasn't only mine. Their men were jumpy, distracted, like something was pressing at the edges of their brains.

I'm tired of asking. I'm tired of small lies and half-truths. I wanted to press him, to pin him down and demand openness, but I also knew the look of a man trying to shield you from worry. So I did what I always do: I showed up with dinner, sat next to him on the couch, and let the silence exist between us until he chose to fill it. He put his hand on mine once, squeezed, then looked away. That's where we are now — living in a fragile in-between, hoping the quiet will be enough until he can speak.

Ntandoyenkosi Zulu

We were at the shisanyama, the smell of char and spice hanging heavy in the air, the men around me laughing loud and easy the way men do to hide the things that bite at them. Drinks passed, braais sizzled, the kids ran and screamed, but under all that the room hummed with something else: worry dressed as bravado.

When we went on the spree — the CETs, the cash moves — we made noise, and noise carries. We stepped in a place we shouldn't have. Rodrigo's territory. Rodrigo is not a man you cross lightly. He's a gang lord with reach: a ruthless operator who built his power on territory, fear, and a reputation that keeps people from asking too many questions. He runs a network that touches logistics, protection rackets, and more. He's the sort of man who demands respect — and tribute. When he believes you stole from him, he doesn't ask for justice; he demands restitution and blood if he doesn't get it.

Tonight the talk at the table was sharp. The boys weren't joking anymore. Nkululeko swirled his drink slowly, face hard. "Rodrigo's boys want everything we took. Not just a cut. Everything." His voice was low but it carried.

Sizwe slammed his palm on the table. "We can't give it back. It's already moved. We either pay heavy or we take a stand." His jaw worked. He always looks like he's deciding whether to laugh or bite someone. Senzo, quieter, tapped a cigarette and said, "If we pay, he'll want more. Always more. It's a debt that grows." Everyone knew that was true.

We argued options, but the arguments weren't about how to do the job — they were about consequences, loyalties, and what we were willing to risk. Nobody wants war. War takes people you love and gives you regret instead of gold. Nkululeko reminded us: "We're not children. If Rodrigo moves on us, he will go for things we can't replace." He meant our freedom, our families, people who rely on us.

I looked at my brothers and cousins. We'd taken risks before and we'd survived. But this was different. Rodrigo's men had muscle and nerves. They'd spill blood to keep their position. We had options, but every one of them carried a price: leave the life, pay tribute and become weak, or fight and possibly lose what we'd built.

The conversation lasted well into the night. Plans were spoken in blunt terms: contacts to lean on, safe houses to check, exits to confirm. But beneath the logistics was the real talk — the thing we rarely say out loud: we might lose everything. A quiet fell over us when that idea was named. No bravado, just the gravity of possibility.

I left that night with a colder resolve than I'd had before. We are not cowards. We will not bend if we can stand. But standing would cost. And for the first time since I made that promise to Nkosinathi, I wasn't sure whether keeping my word would mean protecting Hlelo — or losing her to the life I refuse to walk away from.