The sun was low over Soweto, casting long shadows across the corrugated rooftops. Dombi carried her shopping bags up the dusty street, careful not to trip over the cracks in the pavement. Life had never been easy, but she had learned to manage. Small jobs, small dreams, and a life measured in survival.
"Dombi! Hurry up, or the taxi will leave without us," called Zanele from a few steps ahead, her hair tied back in a messy bun.
"I'm coming!" Dombi shouted back, adjusting the strap of her bag. She forced a smile, but her thoughts were elsewhere.
The small apartment she shared with her foster aunt, Gugu, was cluttered, but it was home. Or so she thought. Growing up, she had never known luxury—only the constant reminder that she had to be careful, work hard, and never ask too many questions about her parents, who had supposedly died in a "tragic accident" when she was a baby.
That evening, after returning from the market, Dombi noticed something unusual. A small, locked envelope had been pushed under her door. Her heart skipped. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. There was no sender—just her name, written in elegant, unfamiliar handwriting.
Curiosity mixed with unease. She tore it open. Inside were documents, photographs, and a key. The papers were official—birth certificates, property deeds, and business contracts. Her heart pounded as she skimmed the first few lines:
"Dombi Ntuli. Heir to Ntuli Enterprises. Daughter of Sipho and Nomvula Ntuli."
Her fingers trembled. She sank to the floor, clutching the papers. Memories—or rather, the lack of them—rushed in. Faces she had never known, lives she had never lived. And the letters weren't just informative—they were accusatory:
"Your parents were killed for their wealth. By the people you call family. Take what is yours before it's too late."
Dombi's mind went numb. She had always thought she was poor, ordinary, powerless. Now she realized her entire life had been a lie. Her parents hadn't just died—they had been murdered. And the people she trusted most… they had lied, kept her in ignorance, and stolen what was rightfully hers.
A sudden noise made her jump. Footsteps—fast, purposeful—approaching her door. She hid the papers under her mattress, heart hammering.
"Dombi, what are you doing on the floor?" Gugu's voice called, casual, but Dombi could feel the tension. Something was wrong.
She looked at her foster aunt and realized, for the first time, she didn't know who to trust. Every familiar face suddenly felt like a mask.
Her life, as she knew it, was over.
And the real Dombi Ntuli—the daughter of the Ntuli empire—was just beginning to wake.