After three years, Johannesburg looked even more beautiful than I remembered—vibrant, alive, even ecstatically pleasant. I couldn't believe how much I had missed city life. But now that I knew who I was, I wasn't conflicted about it anymore. I could see the city for what it was, without letting it swallow me.
Most people here, I realized, were still asleep. Cut off from their roots. Robbed of the spirit's beauty. Stuck in an immaterial maze, unable to see. But the urban rhythm still ruled. Nightlife here wasn't just a hobby—it was a statement. It screamed rebellion. And honestly, you can't age that spirit. You just can't.
The more I took in, the clearer the city became—and with that clarity came conflict. I had mixed emotions. Being the soul that I am, I've always found it hard to contain my excitement, but I'm learning. Not everyone is ready for the truth, and when you live among the sleeping, it's better to move in silence. Arguments drive wedges, and eventually, you'll need bridges. So I kept quiet. Let my palms sweat instead.
Still... I loved this city.
I remembered the trailblazing fashionistas walking across the Mandela Bridge, heading from Newtown to Braamfontein. Young people pushing fashion boundaries, unafraid to stand out. That alone was liberating to witness.
And the hustlers—dancing at the robots (what Americans call traffic lights). I remembered the women and men at the taxi ranks selling mouth lotion and pesticides. Their chants still rang in my head:
"Zambuk three rand! Zambuk three rand! Muthi wamaphela, five rand!"
That energy—that Jozi energy—was still unmatched.
Here, unlike Shoprite, you could buy an avocado for next to nothing. If you were good at negotiating, you'd walk away with a bag full of fruit and a smile. That was one of Jozi's hidden joys—the art of the discount hustle.
I remembered standing on Small Street, buying "Amani" socks for twenty bucks. I remembered that short course I did in Marshalltown, living in Parktown with a friend who's now become a stranger. So distant I can't even picture their face anymore.
These memories pulled a smile across my face. For a second, it felt like home. Like I never left.
But just as quickly, that warmth was snatched away.
The spirits reached out.
I blinked—and for a split second, I saw a werewolf.
The energy was familiar. Ancient. It sent chills down my spine, like the heavens themselves were calling me back to order. Like a parent snapping their fingers at a wandering child.
"Qaphela…"
I heard it—masculine, distant, but clear.
The taxi pulled up to the rank. Time to change. I was supposed to head to Soweto. But I felt something tug at me… I wanted to go to Carlton Centre instead. Sometimes you just can't deny your inner child.
I got off and walked into the Forever Pack Mall. Didn't even stay long. Chicken Licken across Commissioner Street called my name.
Funny enough, I'd been to that very Chicken Licken before—what now felt like a lifetime ago. Back then, I was young, hungry, and clearly… too trusting.
I had just walked out of Pick n Pay, arms full of groceries, when this clean gent approached me out of nowhere. Talked fast. Told me about some insane discount.
"That's too cool," I thought.
At first, I resisted. But these guys were smooth. They had their story polished. "It'll be quick-quick," they said. "You'll be back here with your groceries in no time."
I still see that younger version of me, placing his groceries down by the door—believing in shortcuts.
So we walked.
Just outside, they introduced me to another so-called "client." A man who claimed he'd also just cashed in on the same promo.
"Sizo hlala kuphi?" they asked.
They decided Chicken Licken would be the best place. Discreet. Convenient.
And me? I was hyped. I loved fashion. Branded clothes at a discount? That was a dream. They said I could even pay in installments.
They just needed the money I had—not to keep, but "to trick the CCTV."
"We'll pretend it's a real transaction," they told me.
They asked for my J750 flip phone, too.
"We need it just for a moment," they said.
"It'll get recharged from the same airtime lot we use to call different store branches."
"You'll get it back, don't worry."
They made it sound so simple.
They had the timing, the act, the language. Everything down.
But as naive as I was, something in me still watched. Listened. And my spirit guides hadn't forsaken me.
One slight glitch in their performance, and something shifted inside me.
Just like that—I was gone.
"Nkululeko! Nkululeko!"
I heard them shouting behind me, scrambling to recover.
I never looked back.