(Naledi – POV)
The little print shop on Fox Street never slept, not really. The copier hummed like a patient insect; the air carried the bitter smell of toner and burnt coffee; last-minute deadlines pressed against the counter in human form. Naledi moved through it all with a ledger tucked against her hip, ticking off names with neat precision.
Khumalo Logistics.
Three hundred flyers.
Express.
Outside, Johannesburg breathed in its usual way dry wind carrying grit down the street, minibus taxis shouting over one another, a city always in a hurry to be somewhere else. Inside, Naledi controlled what she could.
By late afternoon, the queue was long and irritable. A student argued over margins. A man complained about colour saturation. Naledi finished translating a lecturer's barely legible brief into something printable and sent money home during her break, promising her mother she would be late again. Miriam's voice over the phone had been soft, resigned, not meant for Naledi's comfort.
She slid the last stack of flyers under the heat lamp. Fresh ink curled faintly into the air. The name across the top was bold and deliberate:
KHU M O NA COURIERS
He arrived wearing a grey hoodie, breath faintly visible as the dry, grit-bearing wind followed him into the doorway. He paused, scanning the counter, the queue, the stacks of paper. He looked like someone who had rehearsed being early and lost the script.
"Hi," he said. "I'm Sipho Mokoena. I called earlier about the flyers."
Naledi didn't look up right away. She matched the name to the ledger, then slid the stack toward him. "You're late."
"I know." He exhaled, half apology, half relief. "I thought I could squeeze in deliveries first."
She noticed his hands before his face—clean, careful as he lifted the flyers, as if paper mattered. People rarely handled print with respect.
"You didn't add an express charge?" he asked.
"We quoted you." She tapped the docket. "Same-day."
"Right." A quick smile. "Card?"
She passed the terminal across. The beep that followed felt like a small, private victory. He set his courier bag down, glancing at the flyers again, pride and anxiety crossing his face in quick succession.
"You look tired," he said.
"Long life," she replied.
Most people laughed when she said that. Sipho only nodded, like he understood.
"Student?" he asked.
"Diploma. Final term."
She didn't offer more. He didn't ask.
He reached into his bag and placed a thin envelope on the counter. Cash. Precise. Intentional.
"I don't want to overstep," he said, "but do you do proofreading? I've got a pitch ten minutes. It could use a polish."
Naledi felt the familiar internal pause. Pride rose first, sharp and defensive. Then practicality followed, quieter but steadier. This wasn't charity. This was work.
"What's the fee?"
"Double." He met her eyes. "I need it to land."
She held his gaze. This wasn't pity. It was a trade her skill for his money. Clean. Honest.
"Sit," she said.
He perched on the low stool by the counter while she scanned the document. It was fine. Too fine. Generic language wrapped around something real that hadn't yet been allowed to speak.
She read aloud. He listened, jaw tight, nodding when she cut sentences, rewrote others, asked him questions that forced specifics. A customer. A route. A missed delivery that had almost ended everything.
The shop faded into background noise. For ten minutes, it was just ink, ambition, and the quiet understanding of two people who couldn't afford to fail.
When she finished, Sipho leaned back, rubbing his face. "I don't know how to thank you properly."
"You paid," she said, slipping the envelope into the till. "Run. Good luck."
He stood, shouldering his bag. Then he hesitated, pulled one flyer free, and placed it carefully over her ledger.
"What's your name?"
"Naledi Khumalo."
A small smile. "Sipho. If this works, I'll bring coffee. If it doesn't—condolences."
The bell chimed as he left, swallowed quickly by Fox Street. Naledi folded the flyer and slipped it into her pocket before she could think better of it.
She closed the ledger, locked the till, and turned the sign on the door. Her phone buzzed—an uncle calling. She silenced it.
Then the computer chimed.
Meeting moved. Investor arriving 9:00 a.m.
Naledi stared at the screen longer than necessary. Tomorrow had just become heavier—for him, not her.
She stepped outside into the evening, the smell of petrol and the promise of rain hanging low over the city. Johannesburg kept moving. It always did.
Naledi pulled her jacket tighter and walked home, the folded flyer warm against her side.