Her life could not have been happier than now. She could finally say she was doing well for herself. Sure, there was much more she wanted out of life, but at least she could rest peacefully at night.

She had come a long way from being the dame of Zululand. She had learned to overcome obstacles which still leaves her trembling when she thinks of them.

She too had been a prisoner. But of tradition. Her heart was captured by a son of a wealthy, local chief. Her family, humble and docile like most in the village. Her life felt like it was carved from a fairy-tale.

However, her blissful days with her Prince Charming quickly descended into a nightmare. His fountain of soothing words had dried up and became replaced by a wall of silence.

She couldn’t understand where things started to crumble. What brought about this contrast in his behaviour towards her? 

It was strange how caring he was to outsiders. Yet at home he was a brute. He would speak gently to her friends; offer to carry their load; bought and served drinks. He even offered lifts to people who lived just down the road.

Her mind skipped back to a night that changed her life. 

She was trying to calm a crying baby on her shoulder when Mandla walked in with his dangerous silence.

“Why is that baby crying? Why isn’t my food ready? And why aren’t you washed up yet?” He demanded, as he dragged himself towards the fridge and grabbed a drink.

“I’ve already prepared the pap. The steak and sausages will only take a few minutes. These children were very restless today. They didn’t even let me finish the laundry. Let alone, do any reading.”

“I’m hungry now, man,” He snorted.

Before he could blink, she was hunched over the stove. As the sausages sizzled, she worked them with her fork. She imagined these sausages were Mandla. She turned them in the pan, this way and that. She deflated them with an incisive poke.

“Your friend, Dumisani, was here earlier looking for you,” Noxolo said.

“Dumisani?” Mandla asked, his voice with a trace of unease. “What was he doing here, when he knows what time I work, and has my number?”

“Ay,” she said, indifferently, “he didn’t say.”

“Is it written fool on my forehead?”

She heard the chair scrape on the floor as he rose. She sensed it was going to be another one of those nights. Her shoulders shook violently as he laid his hand on them. She gripped the pan tightly and swung it like a bat. It crashed on his cranium. Next thing, he was stretched out on the floor.

It took her a moment to see that he was not breathing. He had hit his head in the corner of the table when he slipped and fell from her blow. To the law, her bruises and blackened eye served as her defence. Good riddance, she breathed. She was finally free.

However, threats from her in-laws left her fearful. After, her windows were smashed, she packed her bags, took her children and looked for a new life to build. A life she had rebuilt for the past five years with her bare hands here in Richmount.

She finally resurfaced from her trance and looked at Jack Mthimkhulu. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up in the light.”

Inside, it was warm. The smell of fried oil clung to the walls. On the corner, he saw why she had been so reluctant to let him in. Her two children, like chicks in a nest, were cosy, counting sheep. The blanket they were wrapped in had butterfly patterns spotted on it.

Above their bed were the Ten Commandments framed on the wall. On the table, beside the stove holding a pan full of oil, was a container packed with amagwinya. A stack of amakip-kip laid on the corner of the cupboard.

“So, late night jog?” She asked with a smile, but a certain suspicion lurked under her business-like tone.

She put some anti-septic liquid in a basin and stood next to the kettle with boiling water. Jack Mthimkulu was static, for the question had caught him unaware. To see you, he said in his mind. Aloud he said the first thing that came to him. 

“I was visiting a friend.”

She stopped. “At this hour?”

“It was a long conversation.”

She looked at him, unconvinced. Her hand felt the hotness of the tin kettle.

“I see you’re putting in the graveyard shift.”

“I was just about to call it a night,” said Noxolo

Jack Mthimkhulu staggered up to his feet and cleared his throat. “I probably should get going.”

“Get cleaned up first, you might need to visit a clinic as well in the morning.”

He sat on the couch as the kettle rumbled softly. She straightened his crooked nose, and a terrible cry of pain shot from him. All this time she was humming. He tried not to stare. The welts on his back had become hardened like tree barks.

“Be still,” she said, in between humming.

 “I have done some things. Paid for them too, you can be sure of that. But not enough. I’ve hurt people. It didn’t bother me then and I never thought it would, but now -” And the words died off in his lips. He looked on the ground, and heaved once, twice, then hid his face under his palms and wept.

“Something’s happening to me, Noxolo. People think I’m a monster and they want nothing to do with me. And I don’t blame them. I can’t sleep. Food won’t go down my throat. I -”

There were many things he needed to work out in his mind but couldn’t find the words to express himself. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” she said.

How could he start puzzling these days together in his mind? He decided to tell her everything.

After he had robbed a bakery truck, they celebrated at Mam’ Sibongile’s tavern. He had on a jet-black jacket, a hat with patterns that resembled several crowns and dark blue jeans. He reclined and watched all the patrons’ flit about before him with their bottles.

Mam’ Sibongile was dancing with the patrons, sniffing for any trouble. If she did find any, she didn’t hesitate to snap her fingers. And two men would then bow their hats, flex their muscles and march the perpetrators out of the tavern.

However, on that day the atmosphere was cheery. There were ladies giggling loudly, guys fist pumping to the loud music and jiving together. Despite the joyous energy around, Jack Mthimkhulu felt uneasy. He was always on the hunt.