"Blow steam in the face of the beast." That line plays in my head again — from a Kendrick Lamar track that always seems to find me whenever I'm running away from something. I've learned not to ignore it. You don't sit around when the beast is after you. You move.
On my way to meet Zinhle, I catch myself half-smiling at the memory. I just hope she'll be cool when she sees me. Then there she is — standing in the street, waiting. We greet. She looks alright, but I can tell life hasn't been entirely kind to her.
"I thought you'd wait for me at your place," I say.
"Let you in? Have you forgotten my mother's never been your biggest fan?" she shoots back with a wry smile.
"Fair enough. Let's find somewhere to sit down and talk." My eyes sweep the street.
"Let's go to the supermarket," she suggests.
Inside, the fluorescent lights hum above us. I start telling her what happened last night. Her eyes widen.
"You are one lucky bastard," she says, shaking her head.
I can hear the disbelief in her voice. Not many people can say they've crossed paths with Mlotshwa and lived to tell the story. He kills them all.
It makes sense she'd call me lucky. And yet, as she speaks, the scenes from last night resurface — the flashes, the noise, the chaos. A strange mix of relief and dread curls in my chest. I know I'm lucky. But I also know Mlotshwa must be furious. No one's ever challenged him and walked away.
"I actually came all the way to talk to you. I got your number from Smangaliso."
She frowns, her eyes silently asking who that is.
"Smangaliso Tshabalala," I clarify. "My very best friend — the soccer star."
Recognition flickers across her face.
"So," I continue, "I have something to ask you. This can't wait…"
"Okay."
The word hangs between us. My pulse quickens. The moment feels heavier than I expected — tense, awkward, a little upsetting. And yet, beneath it all, there's something else: the faint sting of disappointment, though I can't say if it's in her, in me, or in the fact that the beast is still out there.
All my life, I've never been good at expressing my feelings — especially in family meetings. I preferred to keep quiet, avoiding the awkwardness and anxiety that always came with speaking up. It just didn't sit well with me.
And now, here I was, required to ask something I'd rather keep to myself. I knew the mood would grow even heavier.
Zinhle and I were once so deeply in love. Being around each other felt magnetic — electric. We'd hold hands often, kiss often, smile often. But now it was as if we were both wearing masks, playing poker, keeping our expressions flat. When you're all in, you can't let anything slip. You guard every move.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a familiar car in the distance. My heart lurches. My intuition flares. Anxiety slams into me like a wave. I'm triggered. My body wants to bolt — either toward it or as far away as possible.
Luckily, it's a false alarm. Same brand, same model… but a different driver. The decorations I feared seeing aren't there. Relief seeps in, loosening the knot in my chest. I exhale, tension spilling out with the breath.
Zinhle notices. She's confused, watching the change wash over me.
"We can't be here too long," I tell her. "I don't feel safe. Feels like someone could just pull up… and start shooting."
"I get you," she says. "But you're wasting time not asking your question."
I hesitate. I don't want to upset her. Part of me wants to get this over with, but life has taught me something harsh — showing emotion invites attack. Honesty is met with resistance, sometimes even madness. Vulnerability isn't rewarded. People take advantage.
So I sit there, balancing the question in my mind like a live wire, wondering if saying it out loud will burn both of us.