I was screaming so hard my throat felt raw, but it wasn't even from pain in the usual sense — it was from that unbearable pressure in my mind. Every sound I made was just an attempt to drown out Mlotshwa's voice. But no matter how loud I got, it was there, inside me, deep like a root that had been growing for years in the soil of my soul.
"Ubuthi uzophelelaphi, mfana wami," he whispered, and then burst into that laugh — that heavy, cold laugh that didn't just echo in my ears but vibrated in my bones. I swear it was as if his breath was on the back of my neck, yet I knew he wasn't in the room. He was somewhere else, somewhere in that space you can't see with the eyes but can feel with every nerve in your body.
My hands were shaking. I wanted to run, I wanted to get up first thing in the morning and run straight to Gogo Nomusa before this thing had a chance to get a hold of me. But now… now it was too late. It was already here. He was already here.
I grabbed the impepho, desperate, my fingers fumbling with the matches. The smoke started rising, curling into the air, carrying my prayers, my begging. But the more I burned it, the thicker the air got, the closer his presence seemed to draw. My chest tightened.
I thought of inyamazane — the last piece I had — and I threw it into the flame, hoping the smell would drive him back, hoping he'd retreat, hoping for silence. But the silence didn't come. Instead, his voice grew sharper, commanding, pushing me toward things I didn't want to hear, didn't want to do.
"Ungilalele… uyabona wena… wena ngizokuthatha…" His tone was no longer taunting; it was claiming.
I clenched my fists, held on to the arm of the couch as if that alone could keep me anchored. Hours passed — I don't even know how many. I was holding on for dear life, refusing to answer the phone, refusing to even look at the door. I knew that if I did, I might lose control and walk straight into something I wouldn't come back from.
Somewhere between exhaustion and stubbornness, my body went numb. My skin felt cold, my ears were ringing, and yet the battle inside was hotter than fire. I tried everything — I prayed, I cursed, I whispered my ancestors' names like a litany, begging them to shield me.
And then… amid that chaos, the air shifted.
It was like I'd stepped out of my own head for a second, like a doorway had opened. My eyes were still in my room, but my spirit was somewhere else. I saw her — my mother. She was standing over a large pot, stirring slowly. The steam rose in white ribbons around her face, and she looked at me with a calm I couldn't explain. There was no fear in her eyes.
She didn't speak, but her movements told me everything. She was preparing something — a concoction, thick and strong, like the kind used to phalaza. I could smell it, bitter and earthy, like the roots of the ground had been pulled up and boiled. She kept stirring, then paused, lifting her head slightly and nodding at me.
That nod… it was the only instruction I needed. It was telling me, do the same.
When I came back to myself, my heart was pounding faster than before, but now there was purpose in it. I began pacing, frantic, my mind racing for the ingredients, the tools, the knowledge. My room felt too small, my body too big for the space I was in. I was moving like a madman, up and down, back and forth, like one of those patients you see talking to themselves in a locked ward. But I wasn't mad. I was fighting.
Every fibre in my being was focused on mirroring that vision. I could feel her presence with every step I took, as if her hands were guiding mine. I fetched water, boiled it. I crushed what herbs I had left, scraping every last piece from the bottom of the jar. My fingers worked fast, clumsy but determined. My breathing was heavy, and every now and then, I would hear his laugh again — that awful sound — but now it was fainter, like he was being pulled back.
I stirred. I prayed over the pot. I called on my mother, my grandmother, the ones before them. The steam rose around my face, covering my skin in warmth, in protection.
I knew I would have to drink, to purge, to let it all out — the fear, the influence, the poison in my mind. I didn't care how bitter it would taste, how much it would burn going down. I was ready to throw up my very soul if that's what it would take to get him out of me.
The pacing didn't stop. I couldn't sit still, not even for a second. My legs felt like they would give in, but I kept moving, because if I stopped, I knew he'd come closer again.
By the time the concoction was ready, I was drenched in sweat, my hands trembling from both exhaustion and adrenaline. I stood over it, looking into that deep, dark liquid, and for the first time all day, I felt a shift — small but undeniable.