The alarm pierced the darkness before dawn. 4 a.m., and the city outside still slumbered. Phenyo was already awake, carefully folding Mthunzi's clothes into his suitcase. The apartment was quiet, except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the occasional car passing in the distance.
"I really don't like this," she murmured, tucking a crisp white shirt into the bag. Her hands shook slightly. "Do you want me to come with you? I don't like the idea of you driving all that way alone."
Mthunzi ran a hand through his hair, silent for a moment. The weight of the call from his father yesterday still pressed on him. "Im just going home babe, it'll be fine" he said finally.
"Yea, that doesn't make me feel any better baby ," she replied softly, shaking her head. Her eyes searched his face ....worry, love, and frustration all tangled into one glance.
He smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I'll be fine. Go back to sleep, its still early."
She let out a long sigh, hugging him quickly before he left. Outside, the city was quiet, streets empty, lights flickering in the half-darkness.
The early morning drive was smooth but tense. Johannesburg faded behind him, skyscrapers giving way to industrial buildings, then rolling hills. His thoughts drifted unbidden to Qhawe, the twin who had always been braver, stronger. The day they arrived in Joburg for university flashed before him, laughter, dreams, hope… then the alley, the shouting, the gunshot.
He had run.
Qhawe hadn't.
For years, Mthunzi buried the memory beneath boardroom battles and business deals, convincing himself success could repay the debt. But now, alone on the highway, the guilt and grief returned in full force.
By Mid-morning, the city was far behind. He stopped briefly at a small petrol station on the outskirts of Gauteng, the scent of diesel, coffee, and frying eggs filling the air. He bought a cup of black coffee and stretched his legs, watching the first birds flit between the trees along the road. The quiet routine of rural life contrasted sharply with the hum of Johannesburg, and for a moment he let himself breathe, though unease gnawed at him.
Back in the car, the landscape became unmistakably KwaZulu-Natal. Rolling hills stretched into the distance, dotted with small homesteads, grazing cattle, and children walking along dirt roads . Smoke from cooking fires mingled with the scent of wet earth after an early mist. The contrast between the calm, measured life of the province and the relentless pace of Johannesburg pressed against him like a reminder of the dual worlds he straddled.
Midday, he stopped again at a small roadside eatery. The smell of maize and stewed meat drifted into his car as he ordered a quick lunch. The shop was bustling in a quiet, deliberate way — women cooking, men discussing farming, children laughing as they chased chickens. Mthunzi felt a pang of nostalgia and something heavier: the life he had left behind, the boy who had grown up under his father's critical eye, always compared to a brother who had died saving him.
By late afternoon, the sun was low, spilling golden light across the red-brick homestead. Mthunzi's heart tightened at the sight of the familiar yard , the smell of wood fires, the faint tang of cooking, the sound of chickens clucking and goats bleating. It was home, yet it felt foreign .
Mazwide, his stepmother, was waiting at the doorway, head wrapped in a bright doek, her smile warm and steady. "Oh, mfana wami, it's so good to have you home," she said, opening her arms. "Look at you! Johannesburg has been very good to you."
He allowed himself a brief smile and hug. "It's good to see you, MaZwide."
he studied her carefully, sensing the tension she carried but hiding it behind her smile. "What does Baba want to talk about?" he asked softly.
"That's tomorrow's worry," she said lightly, though her eyes lingered on him. "For now, go greet him. He's been expecting you."
Stepping into the living room, Mthunzi felt the weight of the past settle around him. His father sat in the same chair he had always occupied, newspaper in hand, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, exuding authority even in stillness. The room smelled faintly of polish and smoke, familiar and suffocating all at once.
"Lusibalukhulu," Mthunzi greeted, lowering his head.
"Jama. Magaduzela. Welcome home," his father replied, folding the newspaper carefully. "Put your bags in your room. We need to go emsamo to tell the ancestors you've returned."
And just like that, the city Mthunzi, the CEO, the man in control, faded. All that remained was the boy who had survived while his brother died, standing in the shadow of a father and the weight of tradition, unsure if he could ever truly escape it.
Mazwide's voice followed him softly as he carried his bag upstairs: "You'll be fine, mfana wami. Just breathe. You're home now."
And for the first time in hours, Mthunzi allowed himself a small, shaky exhale, bracing for the weekend that could change everything.