The cool evening air kissed Zenande's cheeks as she sat quietly in the passenger seat, her wheelchair folded in the back of Nokwanda's father's vehicle. The Zulu homestead gate stood tall and traditional before her — carved wood, hand-painted edges, and a slow creak whenever it opened.
She wasn't used to places like this. Not anymore. Not since her life had been sliced open by metal and fire on that highway. But then, Nokwanda came into her life — wild, soft, powerful Nokwanda — and the pain became bearable.
Nokwanda walked toward her, radiant in the fading orange light, her silhouette proud against the rural sunset. She moved with ease, with joy, with a kind of grounded peace that made Zenande's throat tighten.
"I didn't mean to take so long," Nokwanda said gently, opening the car door.
Zenande smiled. "It's okay. I like watching this place breathe."
Nokwanda leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. "Let me help you."
She took out the wheelchair from the back and unfolded it quickly, supporting Zenande as she transferred herself into it. The sound of gravel beneath the wheels was sharp but reassuring. Nokwanda pushed her gently through the Zulu gate — this time together, this time not as strangers, but as women deeply bound by something neither of them could name.
Inside, the house buzzed with warmth. The scents of roasted meat, steamed bread, and spiced gravy wrapped around them. Nokwanda's mother glanced up from the stove, her face breaking into a delighted grin.
"Yebo, ngane yami," she said to Zenande, walking over and giving her a warm hug. "Siyakwamukela. You are home."
Zenande blinked fast, swallowing back a lump in her throat. "Thank you, Ma. Really."
Dinner was a full spread. Nokwanda sat beside Zenande, occasionally brushing their arms together under the table. Nokwanda's father watched them both with unreadable eyes, but didn't say much. Just the occasional nod or grunt when Nokwanda cracked a joke or when Zenande complimented the food.
After everyone had eaten and the dishes were cleared, Nokwanda's mother wiped her hands on her apron and stood with both hands on her hips.
"You girls are not going anywhere tonight. You'll sleep here. In fact," she added with a firm nod, "you'll stay the week. Look at this fresh air, this quiet! Your body needs rest, Zenande. This place will help you heal."
Zenande chuckled lightly. "Ma, I didn't bring anything."
"I'll give you clothes. You're not going anywhere. Angikhulumi kabuhlungu," she insisted with a playful but serious tone.
Nokwanda squeezed her hand. "You heard Mama. We're kidnapped for the week."
The room they were given was Nokwanda's old bedroom — newly painted, soft bedding, and shelves filled with childhood trophies and faded books.
Zenande wheeled herself inside slowly, turning to look at Nokwanda who was standing at the doorway, watching her.
"You okay?" Nokwanda asked softly.
Zenande nodded. "I'm more than okay. I feel… safe."
The moonlight poured through the curtains as Nokwanda helped Zenande transfer from the wheelchair to the bed. The air shifted. Something silent passed between them — a knowing, a hunger, a shared ache.
Nokwanda leaned down and kissed her — slowly, deeply, tenderly.
Zenande responded, her fingers gripping Nokwanda's shirt as if anchoring herself to a world that finally made sense again.
They made love slowly, carefully, with a deep reverence for each other's scars.
And then, just as Nokwanda's lips traced the line of Zenande's hip, Zenande gasped — not in pleasure, but in shock.
"Nokwanda…" she whispered, eyes wide.
"What is it?" Nokwanda froze.
"I felt that."
"Felt what?"
"My leg… I felt something in my leg."
Nokwanda's eyes welled up instantly. "Zenande… are you sure?"
Zenande nodded, breathless. "It wasn't pain. It was… pressure. Heat. I haven't felt anything there in months."
Nokwanda cupped her face, her voice trembling. "That's your body coming back to you. Slowly. Bit by bit. You're healing."
Zenande closed her eyes, letting the moment soak in. "With you here… anything feels possible."
They kissed again — deeper this time, like lovers clinging to hope in the middle of a miracle. Later, wrapped in each other's arms, they lay under the moonlight listening to the silence of KZN and the loud beat of their shared future.
Far away in Johannesburg, Menzi stared at the photo of Zenande posted online by some villager — her smile radiant, Nokwanda by her side.
His fists clenched around his whiskey glass. He muttered to himself:
"She thinks this is over… but I'm just getting started."
The next morning broke with the sound of life. Chickens crowed like overconfident kings at dawn, goats bleated in their own confused harmony, and cattle lowed softly as they moved toward the nearby field for grazing. In the distance, a waterfall whispered a timeless song through the valley — the gentle roar of water meeting rock, calling the land awake.
Zenande stirred in bed, eyes fluttering open to Nokwanda's warm breath against her skin. They had fallen asleep tangled together, skin to skin, their bodies humming with connection.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Zenande stood.
Not alone — not fully — but with Nokwanda's help and a gleaming golden walking stick her father had fetched from a local healer. The stick's handle curved like a Zulu warrior's staff, carved from dark wood and coated with shimmering gold paint.
"You look like a queen," Nokwanda whispered, holding her steady.
"I feel like one," Zenande replied, a slow, awed smile stretching across her lips.
They stepped outside into the sunlight.
The homestead buzzed with morning activity. Cows moved lazily toward the kraal. A rooster strutted around like he owned the village. Nokwanda's mother stirred porridge over the fire while chatting with a neighbor who had come to fetch eggs.
Then came Siyabonga — Nokwanda's older brother — fresh from the bush with mud on his boots and a blue overall zipped to his neck. His walking stick thumped against the dust as he approached, wiping sweat from his brow.
He stopped dead when he saw Zenande.
"HAWU!" he shouted, nearly dropping his stick. "YOH! Nokwanda… that's… that's ZENANDE MTHEMBU?!"
Zenande tried not to laugh. "Guilty."
"You're in our house?! In OUR BEDROOM?!!" he said, looking at Nokwanda with a mixture of awe and disbelief. "Sisi, you didn't tell me you're dating the woman who broke the internet last year!"
Nokwanda rolled her eyes. "Hay'bo, Siyabonga. She's just Zenande to me. Now stop acting like a crazy fan."
"Just Zenande? Do you know how many guys would sell their cows just to greet her?" Siyabonga shook his head. "No, no, this needs a sacrifice. I'm slaughtering a goat. A whole goat!"
Zenande laughed out loud, leaning on her golden stick. "As long as I don't have to watch."
The whole household chuckled, and the mood stayed light for most of the morning.
Later that day, Nokwanda whispered, "I want to show you something. A place I used to go when I needed to cry or pray or dream."
Zenande nodded. "Lead the way."
They walked slowly, Zenande managing each step carefully with her golden cane. Trees rustled above them, birds chirped, and the air grew cooler as they descended toward the waterfall Nokwanda had spoken about.
And then… there it was.
A breathtaking hidden waterfall spilling down smooth stone walls into a pool of crystal-clear water. The sun filtered through the trees, painting the mist with rainbows.
Zenande's breath caught in her throat. "It's like something from a movie."
"It's real," Nokwanda whispered. "Just like us."
She stepped closer, cupped Zenande's face, and kissed her with a hunger that had waited for privacy, for peace — for this exact moment.
Clothes were shed without haste but without hesitation. They lay on the soft moss beside the waterfall, skin pressed to skin, breath meeting breath.
Zenande felt the cool spray of the water behind her, but the warmth of Nokwanda's body anchored her.
She moaned as Nokwanda's hands roamed, firm and sure, down her stomach, over her thighs, drawing gentle circles of pleasure and reverence.
And as Nokwanda moved lower, kissing her way to Zenande's center, Zenande gripped the moss and gasped.
Her legs trembled.
She felt everything.
Every nerve woke up like it had been asleep for too long, jolting alive under Nokwanda's touch.
"Oh God… Nokwanda!" she cried, arching her back, tears springing into her eyes. "I can feel you. I can feel everything."
Nokwanda's voice was husky with emotion. "Then don't hold back."
Their bodies rocked gently beside the rushing waterfall, the sounds of water, moans, and whispered "I love yous" dancing through the trees. It wasn't just sex. It was healing. Worship. Power. Fire and rebirth.
Zenande came undone beneath her lover's mouth, shaking, gasping, crying — not from pain but from joy. From hope.
She felt her body.
And for the first time, she trusted it again.
Meanwhile, in Johannesburg...
Menzi sat in his hotel room, staring at a laptop screen.
Photos. Reports. Rumors. Screenshots.
"She's in KZN… with HER," he muttered.
He zoomed in on a new post: Zenande spotted using a gold walking stick in rural KwaZulu-Natal.
His jaw clenched.
"I gave you everything," he said to the screen, "and now you'll pay for throwing it all away."
He opened a folder marked Plan B – Firestarter.
A phone call was made. A quiet voice answered.
"I need eyes on Zenande Mthembu," Menzi said coldly. "Track her. Every step. Every breath. I want to know what time she pisses."
"And then?" the voice asked.
Menzi's eyes narrowed.
"Then we burn her whole world down."
The echo of the gunshot cracked through the still air of the waterfall like lightning tearing open the sky.
"Nokwanda!" Zenande screamed, her voice slicing through the valley like a wounded animal. She felt her heart tear in half as Nokwanda collapsed in front of her, blood soaking the back of her white dress.
Zenande's golden walking stick clattered to the ground as she struggled to lower herself to Nokwanda's side. Her legs trembled—feeling again, suddenly, too late—as adrenaline surged through her paralyzed body. Her hands were stained red, trembling as they clutched Nokwanda's torso.
"Nokwanda! Baby, stay with me! Don't you dare leave me!"
Nokwanda's eyes fluttered, her lips twitching as if she wanted to speak—but no words came out.
Zenande's world spun. "Security! Emergency extraction, now! Now, dammit!" she shouted into her wrist communicator, breathless, desperate. The private helicopter they'd come in roared back minutes later, summoned by Zenande's urgent signal. Within seconds, uniformed medics descended from the sky. Her mother-in-law Thembekile ran behind them, screaming and crying hysterically, "Ayibo! Nkos'yami! Nokwanda!"
The Zulu homestead descended into chaos.
Zenande refused to be pulled away as they lifted Nokwanda into the emergency stretcher. "I'm coming with her," she growled, her voice steel, even as tears streamed uncontrollably down her face. She was drenched in Nokwanda's blood, her own golden silk dress stained crimson. The security team nodded, clearing space for her inside the helicopter.
THREE MONTHS LATER
The ICU ward was silent.
The rhythmic beeping of machines was the only sign that Nokwanda Cele was still alive.
Zenande sat silently by her side, a once-vibrant force now reduced to shadows under her eyes and silence on her lips. Her golden wheelchair stood beside the bed. Her fingers were tangled in Nokwanda's, unmoving.
Three months. Ninety long, torturous days. No movement. No sign. Just that machine. That damned ventilator. That steady, cruel beep.
Dr. Mabaso entered the room, eyes weighed down by experience and regret. He stood by the bed, looked at Nokwanda's still body, and then slowly turned to Zenande and her parents.
"There's… there's no sign of brain activity. We've waited. We've tried everything. At this point… it may be time to consider switching off the life support. I'm so sorry."
Zenande snapped her head up slowly. Her eyes, now dull with pain, fixed on him like knives. "No. We are not switching her off."
Thembekile wept in the corner, whispering prayers. "My child… my sweet Nokwanda…"
But Justice Zulu, always cold and firm, folded his arms. "Zenande. My wife. Doctor. She's not there anymore. Letting her go… is mercy. She wouldn't want to suffer like this."
"Don't you dare speak for her," Zenande hissed. "You think I don't know her? You think I don't feel her? She's still here! She's fighting! We don't get to give up."
Her voice broke, trembling. "I love her. I didn't wait all these years, survive all the pain, just to let her die now."
She pressed her forehead to Nokwanda's. "Come back to me, baby. Please. I don't know how to live without you."
ONE WEEK LATER
Zenande refused to eat.
She sat beside Nokwanda every day, whispering stories, telling her the news, reading her poetry. She didn't move from the room. Not even once.
The hospital staff began to worry.
She stopped dressing up. Her glowing aura dimmed. The world called her a fallen star. News headlines showed her frail frame and whispered: "Zenande Mthembu withers beside coma-stricken girlfriend."
She didn't care.
The only thing that mattered was the heartbeat on that machine.