Chapter 1: The Departure
The sky was grey the day she left home. Not stormy, not clear—just uncertain, like her future. The old bus groaned as it rolled out of the small town, carrying her past in its dust and her hope in its engine. Her name was Bonitah which meant beautiful and it clung to her even when everything else had let go.
She clutched a small, second-hand bag on her lap. It held everything she owned: a change of clothes, her passport, and a tightly wrapped plastic bag with just enough money to get her to Johannesburg. From there, she would cross borders—legally or not—and try to make it to the promised land: the country of opportunity. She didn't know where exactly she was going to live. She didn't know who she could trust. But she had faith, and she had Love.
Leon sat beside her. He was tall, charming, and full of dreams. His real name was Leon but everyone just called him Lee He had talked her into this journey. He'd said things would be different out there. Better. "We'll make it," he'd said one night under the stars, when their stomachs were empty and their hearts full. "We just need to believe."
Bonitah had believed. In him. In their future. In the baby they'd maybe have one day. But that baby came sooner than expected, and Leon had changed.
The bus rattled on. Mountains became dust. Towns became cities. Borders crossed silently in the dark, like secrets. When they arrived, everything was fast—cars, people, the language. Everything cost money. Rent, food, even kindness.
At first, they stayed with one of Leons cousins. A couch, shared meals, laughter when things felt light. But within weeks, the cousin grew tired of the extra mouths. Leon began disappearing for hours, then nights. "I'm looking for work," he'd say. But Bonitah noticed the smell of alcohol, the coldness in his voice, the bitterness that replaced dreams.
Then one day, he simply didn't come back.
She waited. One day. Two. A week. She went to the police station. No report. No help. She called the cousin—his phone was off. She searched hospitals, wandered markets, checked shelters. Nothing.
And then, she was alone.
Pregnant. Undocumented. Jobless. Alone.
She sat on a bench near a taxi rank, watching people rush around her, as if she were invisible. She hadn't eaten in two days. Her feet were swollen. Her heart? Numb. A child moved inside her—just a flutter. Life, reminding her it was still there.
cried. Quietly. So no one would see. The tears weren't just for Love. They were for her mother, back home, who had begged her not to leave. For the school she had dropped out of. For the friends who didn't write anymore. For the girl she used to be.
But then she wiped her face.
She stood up.
And she whispered, "I will not die here."
It was not courage that made her rise. It was the need to survive.
The journey of Benaiah had began