I was finally home.
The trip back from Johannesburg had taken more out of me than I expected. That city had a way of wringing you dry — not just your body, but your spirit too. By the time I got off the taxi at the dusty corner near my street, it felt like my legs were made of stone. I didn't greet anyone. I didn't want to. I just walked straight to my room and collapsed onto the bed without even taking off my shoes.
Sleep came in restless waves that first night, my dreams tangled with shadows of the city — flashing faces, tense streets, the smell of smoke. But eventually, the darkness pulled me deep, and for the first time in days, my mind stopped running.
Two days later, I felt lighter. My muscles still ached, but at least I could breathe without feeling like the weight of the world was pressing on my chest. Ayanda was with me now, sitting across from me, her gaze fixed on me in that way only she could — part relief, part disbelief.
"So you're just going to sit there and act like you didn't almost die?" she said, tilting her head.
I smiled faintly. "Kubi impela," I admitted.
"uSinde ngoku lambisa," she said, shaking her head. "You could have literally died, Nkule."
We both laughed, though mine was quieter, almost uncertain. She was right. Johannesburg had nearly swallowed me whole. But there had been progress. Enough to remind me why I couldn't just stop. I had made it out. I had another chance.
Unlike most people who "made it" and ran for the suburbs, I had no interest in abandoning the township. I couldn't. I didn't understand how anyone could just leave without first trying to fix what they knew was broken. What about the people left behind? The children who grew up thinking that crime and struggle were just part of life?
No, the township wasn't hopeless. It was scarred, neglected, beaten down — but not hopeless. What it needed was leadership. Real leadership. People willing to put their hands in the dirt, to stand in the streets and change the way people thought about themselves, about their future. Not politicians in shiny suits making empty promises. I could see it clearly — an organized movement rooted right here in Ezakheni, speaking from the heart, fighting for the ground we stood on.
One of these days, I'd go back to Gogo Nomusa. She had answers. The spiritual world was still speaking, and I knew I hadn't heard everything I was meant to hear. There were truths hidden from me still.
My phone buzzed on the table. Smanga. Again. That was the fourth time he'd called today. I didn't answer. I hadn't answered any of his calls since I got back. Smanga was not to be trusted. There was no need to engage him now, I couldn't afford to be caught off guard.
"I was so worried about you," Ayanda said suddenly. Her voice was softer now, but it carried weight. "I thought about you every single day you were gone. I prayed… over and over. And when I heard about that tavern shooting in Orlando…" She trailed off, her eyes darkening. "I almost fainted. I thought—"
Her voice cracked, and she looked down, her hands tightening in her lap.
I reached over and rested my hand on hers. "I'm here," I said.
"That's not the point," she said, looking up sharply. "Do you know what it does to a person, Nkule, waiting for news every day? Not knowing if the next call is going to tell them you're gone? And you just disappear into that city without telling me where you are or what's happening?"
I opened my mouth to explain, but the words felt weak even before I spoke them. "I didn't want you to worry."
"You don't get to decide that for me," she said.
Her words hit me harder than I expected. Silence settled over us, thick but not angry. Outside, the life of the township went on as usual — children laughing somewhere in the distance, a vendor shouting prices for his mielies, the hum of a passing taxi. The world didn't stop for our personal storms.
Finally, I spoke. "I went there to face something. And I came back with more than I left with. There's work to do here, Ayanda. Real work. I can't walk away from it."
She studied me for a long time, her eyes softening but her worry still clear. "Then promise me you'll be careful."
"I promise," I said. And I meant it. But deep down, I knew there were limits to how careful I could be. The path I'd chosen didn't lead away from danger — it went straight through it.
Somewhere in the quiet, I felt it — that subtle stirring in my chest, like the faint echo of voices from far away. The ancestors were watching. And whether I liked it or not, I was already part of something bigger. Change was coming.
And I had no choice but to meet it head-on.