Everything seemed to blur together like a surreal dream as if I would awaken at any moment and discover that my grandmother is still alive. The world around me appeared hazy and unreal, an ongoing nightmare that refused to release its grip.

Tonight, I lay on the bed, uncovered by the blanket that usually offered a sense of security. I stared up at the ceiling, feeling an odd detachment from the comfort of my own room. It wasn’t the physical cold that kept me awake but the chilling grip of anxiety that had wrapped itself around my mind.

Time seemed to blur as I drifted between consciousness and the haunting tendrils of my
thoughts.

The night deepened, and I found myself lost in the abyss of sleep. Suddenly, I was jolted awake by the unmistakable sound of footsteps that had etched themselves into my memory. Zizipho’s door offered no protest as it swung open; there was no creak, no announcement of his arrival. Zizipho’s voice, laced with confusion, called out, “Malume?”

A surge of adrenaline coursed through me, propelling me into action. Clutching my gown tightly around me, I grabbed the knife that I had strategically placed beneath my pillow. Shoes were forgotten; my determination fueled every step as I made my way to Zizipho’s room. The weapon was cold and unfamiliar in my grasp, yet it carried a purpose that outweighed any hesitation.

The scene that unfolded before my eyes was a tableau of horror. My uncle hovered over Zizipho, his intentions clear. Zizipho’s cries pierced the air, mingling with my own primal scream that erupted as I lunged forward. The blade met his flesh again and again.

Zizipho’s pleas merged with the frenzied rhythm of my heart as I continued to strike. Each blow was a release of pent-up fury, a retaliation against the monster who had held us captive within his reign of terror. The world seemed to dissolve into a blur of motion and chaos.

Hands, unfamiliar yet firm, tore me away from my relentless assault. Whispers spread like wildfire, neighbours drawn by the haunting cries that now echoed through the night. Their shocked faces bore witness to the scene that defied their comprehension.

The knife slipped from my grasp, falling to the ground with a heavy thud. I retreated from my uncle’s lifeless form, my trembling hands stained with his blood.

Desperation gave way to guilt as I scanned the room, seeking Zizipho’s presence in the sea of onlookers. There she stood, fragile yet defiant, held by the embrace of a neighbour. Tears streamed down her face. Her gaze averted away from me.

My heart pounded like a relentless drumbeat, the only sound amidst the sea of judgement that surrounded me. There, amidst their accusing stares, I found a strange solace – a strange contentment that mingled with the remnants of my guilt.

In the distance, a whistle sounded, its piercing note awakening the sleeping township. The news had spread like wildfire, and my actions were now etched into the collective memory of our small community. The realisation dawned upon me that they would know – they would all know that I had ended the life of a man who had worn the mask of a pastor, a man of supposed godliness.

Their judgmental gazes were met with unwavering resolve. I defied their condemnation, my heart hardened by the knowledge that I had saved my sister from a fate worse than death. The police, when they arrived, would understand – they would uncover the truth behind my actions, the truth of my uncle’s unspeakable cruelty.

The night stood still. The weight of my decisions and the future that awaited me settled in the air. I stared at my hands, trembling yet resolute. I had taken a life, not just any man but a man of power. I had also reclaimed our freedom. As the night’s silence enveloped me, I found a semblance of peace amidst the chaos I had wrought.