I was in the early morning taxi.
"Jozi la... abantu abaya eGoli! Jozi majozi!"
The queue marshal kept chanting like a broken drum, his voice slicing through the chill of dawn.
I had to do this—despite the danger.
Gogo Nomusa had thrown the bones, and the spirits had spoken. There was no other way.
She gave me ivimbela—a thick, grainy paste to smear across my eyebrows for protection. She didn't say much, just looked at me with the kind of silence that holds centuries. I knew what that silence meant.
Ayanda's voice still rang in my mind.
"No, it's okay. Do what you must."
She hadn't given me permission. That wasn't support. That was heartbreak pretending to be understanding.
She loved me. I knew it. But this calling—it demanded more from me than comfort. It demanded sacrifice.
When I told her I needed to see Zinhle, it didn't land well.
Of course it didn't.
It wasn't just about my ex.
It was about Jozi. About the shadows I once ran from. About the danger still waiting in alleyways and dark corners.
Mlotshwa and his thugs had put a bounty on me back then.
Three years ago.
You'd think they would've forgotten. But druglords have long memories. Their hustle is religion. Their loyalty is blood. And the game? The game never forgets.
And here I was—going back.
Sometimes I wonder if faith doesn't have a twisted sense of irony.
If I'm really meant to lead... why does my path feel like a graveyard?
"Uyisizukulwane sikaNomkhubulwane," I remembered.
A voice from a recent dream. Soft but certain. It had told me I was born of a sacred lineage. That I was chosen.
But even that couldn't console me now.
"I just need to speak to her," I had told Ayanda. "I promise I won't do anything with her. You are my life now. Whatever I had with Zinhle is over. She doesn't matter to me. You're the woman I want to raise a family with. My future wife."
I meant every word.
But I knew I had shaken her trust. Zinhle wasn't just some girl.
She was the kind of person who didn't forget betrayal.
And let's be honest—I didn't leave her clean.
I left her confused, angry, bitter. And bitter people don't forgive.
They wait.
Ayanda wasn't only upset. She was scared. For me.
Because she knew Jozi was no ordinary city.
She knew Mlotshwa wasn't just a thug—he was Zulu. He understood the same forces we were dealing with. Maybe even more.
African spirituality isn't always light and healing.
There's a dark side too.
People will do anything to become rich.
Ukuthwala. Blood sacrifices. Possession. All of it.
And Mlotshwa?
Rumor has it he did it all.
They say he didn't just have money—he had muthi. Dark, ancient, binding. The kind that could kill from a distance.
And now I was walking right back into his city.
Looking for answers. Risking everything.
How could I be sure Zinhle wouldn't sell me out?
She owed me nothing.
"I just hope you know what you're doing," Ayanda had said.
Her words… they didn't leave me.
Her voice still clung to me like ash, like a goodbye wrapped in fear.
But the bones had spoken.
And I had to go.
Even though I hated it.
I hated this trip.
What I really wanted was to be somewhere far from this madness—with Ayanda beside me. Driving together to a quiet place. Romantic. Peaceful.
We'd go to the beach. Watch the waves crash and let the wind tangle her braids. Then maybe hit the club later—let loose.
Even us spiritual folk need to dance sometimes.
Amapiano still owns the night, but umaskandi?
It's rising. And it's hitting harder than ever. The messages. The rhythm. The fire. They're dropping real music again.
At least I had something to ground me.
UNikhodima was playing in my ears.
Every lyric landed deep.
I nodded to the beat, proud.
Proud of our artists. Proud of our roots.
One day the world would stop trying to imitate us and start honoring us. Our stories. Our sound. Our soul.
But today wasn't about celebration.
Today I was going back.
Back into the belly of the beast.
For answers.
For the ancestors.
And for the truth that could either save me—or finish me.