“Xolani, come here quick!” the woman yells, and a teenage boy comes running. “Go get granddad, run boy!”

While the boy runs towards one of the cattle kraals, the short but strong woman attends to Blessing in the car. “Help me. Let’s get him inside.”

Arm in arm, we carry Blessing into one of the houses. There isn’t much furniture inside – if we were in the city I’d say it was a bachelor pad. We lay Blessing down on a sponge bed. We help him out of his t-shirt. He doesn’t complain much, due to his weakening body.

“Keep him awake, I’ll be right back,” the woman instructs me.

I kneel over Blessing, who is now sweating profusely. “OK, now I give you permission, you can glare at me,” I tell him. I cup his hands in mine. My heart is beating rapidly against my chest. I hope he cannot hear it. He gives me a small smile.

“Gee…” he coughs. “Thanks.” The smirk is visible on his face. His eyelids fall.

I squeeze his hand in mine. “I said stare, Mr Sharp Suit!” My voice comes out harsher than I had intended, I think from fear.

“What’s wrong?” he asks me. It’s amazing how he sees through me.

Note to self: scratch acting off your possible career list.

I decide to go with the truth. “Mark practically died in my arms. I know we barely know each other, but I can’t lose you too. I won’t survive it.” I sniff, blinking away my tears. “Besides, it’s your job to protect me,” I add to redeem my pathetic plea.

“I am not going to die, OK?” he says, glaring at me.

“Promise?” I say.

“Tell you what, if I die, you can kill me,” he jokes.

I slap his hand but I’m smiling.

The woman walks back into the room, accompanied by an old man. She’s carrying a small black bag and a bottle of vodka. The old man greets us and examines Blessing’s wound. “We need to take the bullet out,” he says.

He commands Blessing to chew on thick cloth first, and then he pours the vodka onto the wound. The cloth masks Blessing’s screams. The woman hands him a small but very sharp knife and a pair of tweezers.

“Hold on son, this is going to hurt,” warns the old man. Carefully, with steady hands, perhaps from experience, he makes an incision in Blessing’s wound, enlarging it slightly. He then inserts the tweezers astride the bullet and simultaneously separates the flesh. He takes another pair of tweezers with rubber on their tips, and extracts the bullet very slowly.

Blessing’s screams turn into growls. Tears slide down the sides of his face and with his healthy hand he squeezes my hand to breaking point. I don’t tell him this. I can see that he’s in purgatory.

“There it is,” says the old man, admiring the bullet and holding it in front of him at eye level. “I’d say you were shot with a 9MM pistol.” He stands up.

The woman kneels in his place. “I’m going to clean and cover the wound,” she tells Blessing. She dips another cloth into the alcohol and dabs it around his wound, then she wraps a bandage that smells of garlic around his arm. She helps him to drink some juice. I pat him over the face, and gradually he falls asleep.

“He’s going to be out for a few hours,” the woman explains. “I mixed the juice with some strong painkillers.” She smiles.

“Is he going to be OK though?” I ask, just to be sure.

She nods. “Mkhulu is the best.” I can hear the pride for her father in her voice.

“How does he know how to do that?” I wonder.

We walk outside. “He was a soldier,” she tells me.

We sit on a mat. “I’m sorry for my bad manners,” I say, excusing myself. “My name is Alexandra Lubisi. In there is Blessing Thomas. What is ‘Ma’s name?”

Her eyes are full of understanding. “I am Thoko Zwane,” she tells me, “and Mkhulu is my father. What happened to your husband?”

I must admit, I am a little thrown off by her assumption, but something tells me not to correct her. Even in this day and age, some people are still very traditional.

“He’s protecting me from some bad people because I know something they want to keep secret,” I say. I think that is an acceptable description of the situation.

“You must be hungry, I will get you something to eat,” she says, gracefully standing up from the mat.

“Thank you, ‘Ma Thoko, for your help,” I say. She smiles and nods.

I sit by Blessing’s side. He’s fast asleep. I wonder if he can hear me, like I could hear people when I was unconscious. Suddenly I wonder what Dr Tumi deduced from the many tests that he ran on my condition. They must have been astounded by my illegal discharge in the middle of the night, or maybe my mother told them.

I miss my Mom so much. I have put her through so much since the beginning of the protest, but I could never have guessed that it would come this far, with more twists and turns than a Spielberg movie. I should ask Blessing if I could call her without putting her in danger, since it’s hard to tell who can and can’t be trusted.

‘Ma Thoko finds me in the hut. She has soft porridge with her. “Thank you,” I say. I didn’t realise how hungry I was until I start eating. “It’s very good,” I compliment her. I can tell that she’s not a woman of many words, much like her father. Much like Mark. How desperately I miss him.

Blessing is only quiet when he is angry, but other than that he doesn’t mind talking. He’s not afraid of asking questions either. He’s very sure of himself.

“He’s really going to be OK,” ‘Ma Thoko says, as she catches me watching him. I also notice that I’ve stopped eating.

“I know,” I say. “I was just thinking.” I blush.

“I can tell how much you care for him,” she says. I blush some more.

Do I really care for Blessing? Enough that people think he’s my husband?

I look at him. I know that he would smirk if he heard ‘Ma Thoko’s assessment. I guess I do care about him. He affects me in ways that no one else does. He’s very commanding. He’s infuriating, but he challenges me too.

“He’s a good man,” I murmur, feeling ‘Ma Thoko’s eye drilling a hole into my forehead. “He makes me so angry sometimes,” I confess.

‘Ma Thoko laughs out loud, which is refreshing. “Darling, they all possess that gift,” she says. Her expression has softened. I deduce that she’s recalling someone special in her life.

I decide to probe further. “They do?” I ask.

She nods. “My husband makes me angry all the time, but I miss him when he’s away. My father says that’s how you can tell you love them.”

We laugh together. “If they don’t make you angry, it’s not love,” she says. We giggle some more.

***

Tell us what you think: Will Blessing and Alex be safe with ‘Ma Thoko and her family?