The heat of the afternoon was a physical presence in the backyard of the Mokoena house in Soweto, a thick, shimmering blanket that made the air above the braai stand dance. The scent of sizzling boerewors and lamb chops mingled with the rich, earthy smell of umqombothi being poured from a giant clay pot, and the sharp, sweet perfume of the Mrs. B. Raleigh roses that grew against the fence. It was a symphony of smells that meant home, that meant family, that meant celebration.
Today was the Umembeso. The day Thabo's family formally presented gifts to Refiloe's family, a vibrant, noisy, and joyful step on the path to their wedding.
Refiloe, seated beside her mother on a blanket spread over the grass, felt a bubble of happiness so pure it threatened to lift her right off the ground. She was dressed in a beautiful isiZulu-inspired outfit, a gift from Thabo's family—a deep indigo skirt and a beaded apron, her shoulders draped with a soft, white shawl. Her mother, Grace, sat regally beside her, a woman whose beauty had sharpened with age into something formidable and elegant. Her hand, resting on Refiloe's, was cool and steady.
"Look at him," Grace murmured, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she nodded towards Thabo. He was standing with his uncles, looking slightly overwhelmed but deeply happy in a new, too-stiff suit, laughing at something Bongane, Refiloe's brother, was saying.
"He looks like he's being interviewed for a job he already got," Refiloe whispered back, and her mother's quiet chuckle was a reward.
Bongane, ever the charismatic one, clapped Thabo on the back, his laughter booming across the yard. At thirty-two, he was the family's rising star, a chartered accountant with a smile that could disarm a traffic cop. He moved with an easy confidence that Refiloe had always admired.
From the kitchen doorway, her older sister, Dineo, directed the flow of food and drinks with the quiet efficiency of a field marshal. At thirty-five, Dineo was the family's spine. Where Refiloe had their mother's more expressive nature, Dineo had their father's quiet, unshakeable solidity. She caught Refiloe's eye and gave a small, swift smile—a rare, unguarded moment—before turning to shoo a cousin away from the potato salad before it was time.
This was her life. This tangled, loud, loving web of people. It was the bedrock upon which she was building her future with Thabo. He was not a new addition; he was a returning piece, the boy from two streets over who had become a man she couldn't imagine life without.
The ceremony began. Thabo's family, a large, boisterous group from East Rand, presented the gifts—blankets, baskets, a beautiful set of beaded gourds. The air filled with ululation and the deep, resonant harmonies of old hymns. Refiloe's father, Abram, presided over it all. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man whose voice, though softer now than in his youth, still carried a natural authority. He stood beside Thabo's father, two patriarchs sealing a pact of happiness. But Refiloe saw the sheen of sweat on his brow, the way he subtly leaned against the table behind him. The pneumonia that had plagued him for weeks was a stubborn enemy, refusing to fully retreat.
Later, as the sun began to dip and the golden light bled across the sky, Bongane stood, raising his glass of ginger beer.
"A toast!" he announced, and the yard quieted. "To my little sister, Refiloe. The one who used to follow me around the yard trying to braid my hair." Laughter rippled through the family. "You have grown into a woman of such strength and grace. And to Thabo… my friend, and now, my brother. I remember when you two were in primary school and you pushed Refiloe off the swing because she wouldn't give you a turn."
Thabo buried his face in his hands, his ears turning red, as everyone laughed.
"But I also remember," Bongane continued, his voice softening, "how you came to our house the next day with a bag of those sour worms she loved, just to say sorry. You've been trying to make it up to her ever since. Look after her, my brother. She is the best of us."
The toast was met with cheers and clinking glasses. Refiloe felt Thabo's hand find hers, his grip warm and sure. This was it. The perfect centre of her world.
As the festivities wound down and families began to say their goodbyes, Refiloe found her father sitting alone on a bench under the peach tree, catching his breath.
"Daddy," she said, sitting beside him, leaning her head on his shoulder. "You should go inside and rest. You've done enough for today."
He put his arm around her, pulling her close. His body felt thin beneath his suit jacket. "How can I rest when my daughter is so happy?" he said, his voice a low rumble. "This is medicine for me, Refiloe. Seeing you like this."
He was quiet for a moment, watching the last of the guests depart. "He is a good man, Thabo. He has a good heart. I am not worried for you."
"I know, Daddy."
He turned to look at her, and in the fading light, his eyes were deep pools of something she couldn't quite name—a profound love, yes, but also a shadow, a weight he seemed to carry just for her.
"No matter what happens," he said, his voice dropping so only she could hear, "you remember that you are my daughter. You hear me? You have always been my heart."
The intensity of his words, the gravity in his tone, sent a small, cold trickle of unease through her. It was more than a father's sentimental moment. It felt like a vow.
"Daddy, nothing is going to happen to you. You're going to get strong again and walk me down the aisle."
He smiled then, a tired, gentle smile, and kissed her forehead. "Yes, my angel. I will."
Inside the house, the mood was warm and spent. Dineo and their mother were already packing leftovers into Tupperware. Bongane was loosening his tie, telling a animated story to a cousin. Refiloe's phone buzzed in her hand. It was a message from Thabo: "I'm the luckiest man in Soweto. See you tomorrow for cake tasting."
She was about to reply when the landline phone on the wall, an old, beige relic that refused to die, rang with a shrill, urgent sound.
Dineo, who was closest, picked it up. "Molo? Ewe, she's here." Her body, which had been relaxed in post-celebration weariness, went rigid. Her eyes flickered to their mother, then to Refiloe. The colour seemed to drain from her face.
"When?" Dineo's voice was tight, controlled. "Okay. We're coming. Now."
She hung up the phone. The click was unnaturally loud in the sudden silence of the room. Grace had stopped wiping the counter, her hands still. Bongane had fallen quiet.
"What is it?" Refiloe asked, the bubble of her happiness feeling dangerously fragile.
Dineo's voice was a flat, forced calm, a thin sheet of ice over a raging river. "That was the hospital. Daddy's test results… they're not good. His heart is under too much strain. They… they don't think he has much time."
The words landed not with a scream, but with a terrible, silent thud. The lingering scents of the feast suddenly smelled like a memorial. The joyous echoes of the day vanished, replaced by the deafening tick of a clock they had all tried to ignore.
The celebration was over. The vigil was about to begin.