Ndalwenhle's POV (Birth + Betrayal):
I came into this world on a day that was supposed to be filled with love. A day when my mother should've been smiling, holding me for the first time, thanking God for life. Instead, sorrow walked in and sat beside her bed.
She had gone to the hospital with hope. Baby clothes neatly packed. Her heart beating fast, not from fear but from the thought of sending my father a message the moment I was born. She still believed in forever. She still believed in him.
When I was placed in her arms at three in the afternoon, she named me Ndalwenhle Star — her star, her light, her new beginning. She took pictures, ready to send them to him, only to find out she had been blocked. At first she thought it was the network. Denial is a cruel comfort. She tried to call, but all she got was voicemail.
Her sister, Sandiswa, came later. And with her, the truth walked in. She showed my mother the photos — the wedding, the white dress, the smile on his face as he held another woman's hand. My father. Nhlalo . A man who had promised her forever but was busy saying vows to someone else while she bled for me in the theatre.
The comments on Instagram told the whole story. "Congratulations." "Welcome to the family." Even his cousin had written: Welcome to the family, Mrs Z
That was the reality. The harshness. The cruelty. The surname she thought was hers was already being celebrated by another.
My mother broke that day. She had a panic attack so bad the doctors had to sedate her. And when she woke, she still tried to cling to hope. But then came the call.
It was him. My father. Cold, cruel, voice sharp like a knife.
"It me," he said, "the last born of Mr. Z, the one your father killed. I wanted revenge. And you... you were my target."
She begged for answers, for understanding, for anything human. But he gave her none. "Every second with you was torture. I never loved you. Leaving you with a piece of me ... that was my revenge."
That piece was me.
And then the line went dead. Just like that.
She cried that night, rocking me in her arms, whispering promises that she would raise me, protect me, provide for me. But sometimes promises are born from pain, and pain has a way of swallowing promises whole.
From the very beginning, my purpose wasn't to be loved.
I was revenge.