Zenande sat in the private hospital room, surrounded by machines that beeped rhythmically, each one a cruel reminder of how far Nokwanda had drifted from her. The sun had risen again, casting golden lines through the blinds, warming the space that remained untouched by Nokwanda's voice, her laugh, her heartbeat. For three months, Zenande had been living in limbo — and not a day passed without pain that made her question the meaning of waking up.
She looked at Nokwanda, still and beautiful, her body motionless, connected to a ventilator. There were moments Zenande believed Nokwanda would flutter her eyes open, maybe even squeeze her hand, but that moment had not come. The bullet that hit Nokwanda had not just torn through flesh — it had stolen her light, and now, doctors spoke about "quality of life" and "irreversible coma."
But Zenande refused. She refused death. She refused silence.
The door creaked slightly, and Nokwanda's mother, Thembekile, entered holding a food tray. Her eyes, swollen and tired, held no hope, but she smiled weakly. "You need to eat something, Zenande," she whispered.
"I can't," Zenande responded, not even looking up. "She hasn't eaten. How can I?"
Thembekile placed the tray on the small table and sat beside her. "I don't sleep either, baby. But if we fall... who will fight for her?"
Zenande turned her face toward her lover, the woman who had kissed life back into her soul. She remembered the laughter they shared at the waterfall, Nokwanda's lips warm against her skin, her voice whispering dreams into the wind. That was the last time Nokwanda had been free. That was the last time Zenande had known peace.
"I'll never let her go," Zenande said firmly. "Even if everyone else gives up. I won't."
Somewhere across the city, Menzi Dlamini was watching.
He sat in a luxury suite at the Oyster Box Hotel, drinking expensive whiskey while flipping through images of Nokwanda in hospital, Zenande curled beside her like a shattered angel.
"Pity," he muttered, a smirk tugging at his lips. "All that money. All that power. Reduced to begging a corpse to wake up."
His plan was going perfectly. Nokwanda's return had been unexpected — but the bullet had done the job. He had paid well for the sniper, used a false identity, and ensured the shooter vanished into Mozambique immediately after.
But now? Now it was time to finish what he started.
"I took your father, Zenande," he whispered. "And you still thought I married you for love. I used you, sweet girl. Used your body, your name, your power. And now... I'll take everything else."
Menzi picked up his phone and sent a message to an unknown number.
"Stage 2. Begin."
Back in the hospital, Zenande reached over and touched Nokwanda's cheek gently, brushing a tear from her own eyes.
"They said we had no future. That this kind of love wasn't meant to last. That we were two broken women clinging to a dream... but you made me believe. Nokwanda, you made me feel again."
A soft knock interrupted the moment.
It was the doctor.
Dr. Mbatha stepped in slowly, her face carefully composed. Zenande knew this look. She had seen it once before — when they told her they couldn't save her father.
"We need to talk," Dr. Mbatha said, voice low. "May we sit down?"
Thembekile stiffened. Zenande's grip on Nokwanda's hand tightened.
"No," Zenande said immediately. "If this is about switching off machines, I don't want to hear it."
Dr. Mbatha sighed. "Zenande... it's been three months. Her brain activity is deteriorating. Her organs are stable, but without consciousness... the chances of her returning to full function are—"
"I said no!"
Her scream echoed down the hallway, and the machines beside her beeped more aggressively as her heart rate spiked. Thembekile placed a hand on Zenande's shoulder, trying to ground her.
"We're not giving up," Zenande whispered again. "I don't care what the charts say. She's in there. I feel her. She's listening."
Dr. Mbatha stood slowly. "You have until the end of next week to decide. After that... we will have no legal choice."
Zenande's head dropped as tears hit her lap.
"I will never say yes to letting her go."
The next morning, Zenande woke to chaos.
Not from the machines. Not from Nokwanda. But from the world outside.
"Zenande Trends Again: Love Turned Tragedy"
"'Don't Pull the Plug!' – Zenande Mthembu's Desperate Plea for Her Lover's Life"
"She Fights Alone – Where Is the Justice for Nokwanda?"
Those were just a few of the headlines flashing across her phone. Her social media was ablaze. Photos of her sleeping beside Nokwanda. Videos of her breaking down in front of the doctors. Leaked audio of her refusing to let Nokwanda go.
It was everywhere. And suddenly, the silence of Nokwanda's hospital room felt louder than a thousand voices.
Her mother, MaMthembu, stormed into the room, phone in hand, shaking with frustration.
"They're calling you weak, Zenande," she said sharply. "They think you've collapsed. That the spoiled little girl has finally cracked. Are you going to let them bury you alive with her?"
Zenande didn't answer. She kept her eyes on Nokwanda.
"I said," her mother repeated, voice hard but not unkind, "are you going to let them win? You think this is what Nokwanda would want? You giving up? Starving yourself? Crying all day and hiding from the world?"
Zenande's voice cracked. "What world? My world is lying in that bed, dying."
MaMthembu's voice softened, but her spine stayed straight. "Then fight for her. Fight like you were born to. You are Zenande Mthembu — you survived that accident, you survived Menzi's betrayal, you survived public shame and private pain. Don't you dare crumble now."
She walked over to her daughter, gently lifting her chin.
"You wear your pain like diamonds. But now... you turn it into armour."
Later that day, Zenande did what no one expected.
She walked out of the hospital in a black designer coat, heels clicking on the pavement, and gold-accented walking stick shining under the sun. Cameras flashed. Paparazzi called her name. Protesters held up signs: "PRAY FOR NOKWANDA!", "QUEER LOVE DESERVES HOPE!"
And behind her signature sunglasses, Zenande didn't flinch.
At the podium outside the hospital gates, she spoke to a city watching live.
"I am not here to cry. I've done that in private. I'm not here to beg. My prayers have already been heard. I'm here to remind you who I am — and who she is."
She pointed to a giant photo of Nokwanda smiling in front of a waterfall.
"She is the reason I breathe. And I won't let the world pull the plug on her dream."
Cameras zoomed in. Comment sections lit up. For the first time since Nokwanda was shot, Zenande looked alive again — no longer a widow of a woman still breathing, but a fighter with nothing left to lose.
That night, back in Nokwanda's room, the machines beeped softly. Zenande climbed into the bed beside her, as she had every night, and whispered:
"Did you see me, baby? I stood tall. I told them you're not done. I told them I'll wait for you — even if it takes forever."
She wrapped her arms gently around Nokwanda, her gold cane leaning against the wall.
Outside, the city roared for her. But inside, her war continued.
And Menzi?
He was watching too.
The cold wind kissed Zenande's cheeks as she sat outside Nokwanda's private hospital wing, her back straight, her soul cracked but not broken. Since her public statement, she'd been all over the media — branded as a tragic heroine, a fierce lover, a phoenix refusing to fall into ash. But none of that soothed the hollow ache inside her.
Zenande clutched Nokwanda's necklace in her hand — the one she wore during their first date. It smelled faintly like lavender and something warm, something that felt like home.
A soft voice pulled her from her thoughts.
"You're becoming a problem for someone, sisi."
She turned slowly to face the nurse who spoke. A young woman, barely in her twenties, with eyes that shifted too quickly and a badge that didn't quite match the hospital's design.
Zenande stood carefully, her golden cane striking the concrete. "What did you say?"
The woman smiled tightly. "Be careful who you trust. Menzi isn't done."
Zenande's blood ran cold. But before she could respond, the nurse disappeared into a crowd of other staff.
Inside the Shadows
Back at an undisclosed location, Menzi was seated in a high-rise office overlooking the ocean, fingers clasped together. His assistant, a skinny man with anxious energy, stood nearby.
"She's gaining sympathy," the assistant mumbled, flicking through headlines. "People are rallying behind her."
"Let them," Menzi replied coldly. "Sympathy fades. Power doesn't. I need her distracted — drowning in grief. We hit her where it hurts the most."
He turned to face the window, eyes dark.
"Stage two begins."
At the Hospital
Zenande returned to Nokwanda's room just as Nokwanda's mother was replacing the flowers. The older woman had aged ten years in three months — her once-bright energy replaced by a heavy, quiet sorrow.
"Ma," Zenande whispered. "I think something's wrong."
"What is it, mntanami?"
Zenande hesitated, then told her everything: the nurse, the message, the odd feeling she'd had for weeks now — like she was being watched, followed.
Before MaNdlovu could respond, the power flickered.
Just once.
But it was enough.
Zenande dropped her cane, sprinted as best she could to the room's door, locking it. Her heart was racing.
She whispered, "They're coming for her. I know it."
Later That Night — The Break-In
Security footage later revealed a shadow moving through the emergency generator room — a figure in black disabling specific systems. Not the whole hospital. Just Nokwanda's wing.
Zenande woke to the sound of alarms.
But she didn't scream.
She acted.
Enter the Fire
Menzi's men didn't expect her to have private guards. They didn't expect Zenande to be prepared, not this time.
By the time they reached Nokwanda's room, a bulletproof panel slid over the glass, and an alarm signaled lockdown.
Zenande, gun in hand — a gift from one of Nokwanda's police cousins — stood tall behind Nokwanda's bed.
"You want her?" she hissed through clenched teeth. "Over my dead f*cking body."
The invaders were forced to flee when the hospital's armed security stormed the wing.
Zenande collapsed in a corner after it was over, shaking but unbroken.
The Morning After
MaMthembu came in early, flanked by two detectives and a private investigator Zenande had quietly hired.
"You were right," the detective said. "That wasn't a random break-in. Someone paid to silence her. We think it's connected to your family's past."
Zenande looked down at Nokwanda, still trapped in silence. She whispered, "But you still hear me, don't you?"
Then, something happened.
A single finger.
Twitching.
Zenande gasped. "Mama... she moved."
For a moment, Zenande thought she was imagining it. She rubbed her eyes, leaned closer, and held her breath.
There it was again.
A twitch.
Nokwanda's index finger moved.
Not once. Twice. Then three times.
Tears flooded Zenande's eyes as she pressed the emergency button, heart pounding in her chest like a drum of war. The room lit up with alarms. Nurses and doctors rushed in. Machines beeped. Words flew. But Zenande heard none of it — all she could see was her.
"Please," Zenande whispered, "Please tell me she's coming back to me…"
Later That Day
Dr. Jacobs, the lead neurologist, looked stunned as he studied Nokwanda's brain scans. "This is... unexpected," he admitted. "After three months in a coma, even minor movement is significant. Her brain is responding. Slowly, but... it's something."
Zenande held her mother's hand as she listened, her wheelchair beside her, cane across her lap like a sword of purpose. Her eyes were red but alive with fire.
MaMthembu looked to the doctor. "What happens now?"
"We wait. And we prepare. If she regains full consciousness, it will be a miracle."
Zenande stood slowly, placing her golden cane on the ground with a quiet click. "No," she said. "It's not a miracle. It's love."
KwaMashu — Menzi's Hideout
Menzi threw the glass across the room. The sound shattered through the silence.
"She's moving?" he growled.
His henchman nodded fearfully. "The hospital says it's minimal. Still a coma. But… the scans show increased brain activity."
Menzi stood over a map of Durban and outlying areas, red dots marked across various businesses, lands, and political positions.
"I wanted to break her spirit. Not spark a revolution."
He paced, pausing in front of a photo of Zenande, her eyes blazing at a press conference, bold and fearless even in a wheelchair.
"This ends now. We move to Phase Three."
Durban City Hall – One Week Later
The world had taken notice.
#PrayForNokwanda trended globally.
Zenande had appeared on every major news outlet — CNN, ENCA, BBC, SABC.
"She is not a vegetable," Zenande had told a room full of journalists. "She is the most alive soul I've ever known. And I will wait, for as long as it takes. Nokwanda is coming back. And when she does, we'll finish what we started."
The crowd had erupted in applause.
KwaZulu-Natal – At the Falls
After all the interviews and media noise, Zenande needed space. Her mother insisted she return to Nokwanda's childhood home.
"Go rest, mntanami. You need air. She'll still be there when you return," her mother said.
Zenande arrived with MaNdlovu and Siyabonga — Nokwanda's brother — at the small village nestled beneath the green hills of KwaZulu-Natal. It was peaceful. Cattle roamed freely. Chickens strutted near the gate. A goat screamed at sunrise like it was a morning alarm clock.
But it was the waterfall that caught her heart.
Zenande sat in her wheelchair on the edge of the rocks, overlooking the cascading water. "She brought me here once," she told Siyabonga. "Said it was her heaven."
He smiled faintly. "She used to jump off that rock, head first, like a mad woman."
Zenande chuckled. "Of course she did."
He turned serious then. "You really love her, huh?"
"With everything in me."
"You're stronger than I thought," he said. "Before… I didn't think you were real. But you are."
That Night – In the Quiet of the Falls
Zenande, unable to sleep, returned alone to the waterfall.
She stood — yes, stood — leaning on her golden cane. Her legs had grown stronger. Her doctors said she'd walk fully again in time.
The waterfall sparkled under the moonlight. The mist curled around her body. She closed her eyes, breathing in the earth, the water, the memory of Nokwanda's laughter echoing through the valley.
And then, in the quiet, she felt something.
A hand.
Sliding around her waist.
Zenande turned — breath catching — to find Nokwanda.
Not in reality.
But in her dream.
They kissed under the moonlight, bodies pressed against the rocks, soaked with waterfall mist. Her dream-lover made love to her slowly, their bodies whispering secrets only hearts understood.
Zenande gasped when she felt a spark on her leg — not in the dream, but for real.
She woke up gasping. Tears fell down her face.
"My leg… I felt her."
Back in Durban – A New Beginning
The next day, the doctors confirmed something incredible: Zenande's nerve endings were regenerating faster than expected. The sensation in her lower limbs was improving.
"It's like something inside you is waking up," the neurologist said.
Zenande knew exactly what it was.
It was Nokwanda.
The city smelled like war.
Zenande could feel it in the air — a tension, thick and unspoken, like the silence before a storm. Something dark was coming, but she no longer feared it. She had shed her old skin — the victim, the broken daughter, the betrayed woman. She had been forged in pain and fire. And now, she was ready to burn for something greater.
At St. Augustine's Hospital, the light above Nokwanda's room was no longer red. It blinked green.
"She's stable," Dr. Jacobs said with awe. "Her brain activity is increasing rapidly. There's a strong chance she's hearing you."
Zenande's mother, MaMthembu, stood beside her as they watched Nokwanda through the glass.
"You know what to do, mntanami," her mother said gently. "Talk to her. Remind her who she is — who you both are."
Inside the Hospital Room
Zenande rolled her wheelchair beside Nokwanda's bed, her golden cane across her lap. Her fingers trembled slightly as she took Nokwanda's warm hand into her own.
"Hey," she whispered. "I'm here, sthandwa sami. I'm not going anywhere."
Her voice cracked, but she cleared her throat and continued.
"You're the strongest woman I've ever known. You walked into my life when I was ready to give up on everything. You saw me when I couldn't even look at myself. You taught me how to stand — in every sense of the word."
She squeezed Nokwanda's hand gently.
"But now it's my turn. I'm going to protect you. I'm going to fight for you. And you're going to come back to me — not for me, but for you. You still have work to do. Your story isn't over."
Zenande's mother watched from the door, tears in her eyes. Nokwanda's mother stood beside her, holding a candle in silent prayer.
Somewhere in Umlazi – Menzi's Safehouse
Menzi laughed coldly as he lit his cigar. "They're celebrating too early."
He nodded at one of his men. "Release the video."
A USB drive was inserted into a laptop. Within seconds, a deepfake video hit the dark web. It showed Zenande allegedly taking bribes, calling Nokwanda a "charity case" and mocking township women.
It was completely fake — but convincing.
The Storm Hits Social Media
Within 20 minutes, Twitter/X and Facebook exploded.
"Zenande's fake love EXPOSED!"
"Leaked video: Did she use Nokwanda for sympathy?"
"Is Zenande Mthembu a fraud?"
Zenande's phone began to buzz non-stop.
Her PR team called.
Her sponsors pulled out.
Her mother gasped as her face appeared on the TV, labeled "Scandalous Heiress Exposed!"
But Zenande?
She didn't move.
She stayed beside Nokwanda, brushing her hair softly, whispering, "We've faced worse. We'll rise again."
That Night – The Awakening
At exactly 2:03 a.m., Nokwanda's finger moved again.
This time, it didn't stop.
Her eyes fluttered. Her chest shifted. The heart monitor beeped faster.
A nurse gasped. "She's… she's waking up!"
Zenande, asleep in the chair, woke to the sound of her name.
"Z-Ze…nande…"
Her breath caught in her throat. She turned slowly.
Nokwanda was staring at her, tears in her eyes.
Zenande burst into tears, half-laughing, half-sobbing as she kissed Nokwanda's hand over and over.
"You came back to me," she whispered. "You kept your promise."
Nokwanda smiled faintly. "You waited."
Zenande held her face and whispered, "I'll wait a thousand lifetimes for you."
Two Days Later – Public Redemption
Zenande stood on a podium in downtown Durban, the ocean breeze whipping her natural curls into the wind.
She held up a flash drive. "The video circulating was fake — created by Menzi Sibeko, the same man who tried to kill my partner, destroy my name, and silence the truth."
She pressed play.
The real footage — of Menzi bragging about framing Zenande — played on a giant screen behind her.
Gasps. Screams. Media frenzy.
Menzi was arrested within 3 hours.
Zenande's name was cleared.
But she wasn't done.
Back at the Hospital – The Dream Becomes a Plan
Nokwanda was stronger each day. She could now sit up, speak in full sentences, and even joke with the nurses.
"You know I'll still be hotter than you in a wheelchair, right?" she teased Zenande.
Zenande laughed. "Baby, you've always been the flame. I just learned to burn beside you."
They sat side-by-side, staring at an architectural sketch on Zenande's tablet.
"The centre for girls," Nokwanda said softly.
"A place for healing, education, safety," Zenande added. "Named after your mother."
"And yours," Nokwanda smiled.
They locked pinkies and whispered together:
"For the daughters no one protected… we'll build a world where they never have to beg to be seen."